


Leave me breathless

by conchepcion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bridezilla, A great deal of drinking, Annoying ex-fiance, Crack to the core, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Holiday in exotic location, Loads of absolutely idiotic situations, Loads of arguing, One hapless male character, One really annoyed female, One sexy consulting detective trying to soothe some old feelings, One tacky wedding, Post-His Last Vow, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's ex-fiancé Tom Abbot is tying the knot to the beautiful woman Polly Pedretti. She doesn't have a problem with this, but everyone assumes she's not over Tom. To prove she is, she tells about her boyfriend Ian, who unfortunately doesn't exist, but wanting to keep up the deception she hires an 'escort' to accompany her to the wedding in Rome. Only it doesn't entirely go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uno

**Author's Note:**

> I recently re-watched 'The Wedding Date', and found myself thinking 'fun'. Obviously the film struck a cord, and I am adding another WIP on my list. The chapters will be short and I predict a short story in all essence. Hopefully, or well, I'll try. There will be no beta, just me, so heads up. Hope you'll enjoy (?)

Molly. Brunette. _Brunette._ Staring at the images available to her on her laptop screen, with the curly haired Tom Abbot clutching his Polly, the half-Italian former model with the obscenely long legs that now worked as a biologist minimized her previous fear. The one fear she shared with Mary when she’d just heard of Tom’s engagement after having spent a couple of months with ‘the most amazing woman he’d ever met’; that this woman would be a copy of her.

Luckily the photographs certainly put an end to those thoughts, unluckily other thoughts started to flutter through her system, especially as the wedding invitation sat docile on her coffee table reminding her of her own non-existent love life. She was still very single, and somehow, this was a very bad thing according to their mutual set of friends, “You don’t still have – _feelings_ – for him?” Despite her refusals, which came hurried and unrehearsed – no one believed her; as her being single made everyone think she was going to go into hysterics any time soon.

She considered not going, pretending that work was too much at an uproar, though she could feel her best friend Meena practically snort at that, “Honestly, it’s dead people they can wait.” But, the nonbelievers in her lack of distress went, “Oh, are you upset about him getting married?” They assumed her not going meant she wanted him back, which was why she ticked off ‘yes’ with a ‘plus one’. But the news travelled fast, rather quicker than she’d assume when Tom’s foreign number showed up on her phone. “Got yourself a boyfriend, then?” he said, sounding absolutely delighted. “Polly wants to hear all about him.”

This was how she found herself with Mary Morstan, the only one she could properly commiserate with, and the only one who she knew wasn’t invited to the wedding, besides the rest of the lot, but the only _sympathetic_ ear at least. “Obviously she wanted to hear all about _him_. She probably doesn’t even want you to come,” said Mary shaking her head. “So…I’m getting from your face that you lied.”

“Yep,” said Molly taking a large swallow of her wine, which Mary watched warily, unfortunately still breastfeeding Adelaide. “Told them I’ve been seeing someone for months.”

“Have you?” said Mary mildly puzzled.

Molly settled her glass of wine on the table with a sigh, her fingers clutching firmly at the stem of the glass. “Ian.”

“Ian?” Mary’s bemusement reached new levels. “ _Ian?”_

“First name that came to my head,” said Molly giggling. “After that it became easier lying, even I started believing that Ian existed.”

Mary gave her a sympathetic smile. “What are you going to do when they find out Ian’s a fake?”

She averted Mary’s eyes at that, bringing the glass quickly to her lips again, savouring the wine, as Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Molly.”

Putting down the empty glass, she looked at Mary. “I’ve – I’ve done something really, _really_ stupid.” 

It was amazing what some online shopping could get you; she’d only intended to buy a new jumper to subdue any urge of self-pity, which had been alarmingly high, but then again wine had been involved.

“How stupid?” said Mary.

Instead of a new jumper or any kitten-pattern socks, she’d bought ‘a boyfriend’ or well an _escort_ was the term set by him, however, possibly commonly known as - “A prostitute!” said Mary with wide eyes, her voice a screech.

Her head was pounding already, the hangover appearing all-too soon, but it was already paid for – an alarming sum – a whooper – “ _6000 pounds_!” exclaimed Mary horrified, who soon meant she’d been cheated. “This bloke didn’t claim he was a _Prince_ or something?”

 

* * *

The flight had been dreadful, filled with various assortments of exuberantly drunk people, some of them blissfully unaware of her state of mind – her date – _Ian –_ would be awaiting her when she landed. She had argued with Mary that she had to cancel, that St Bart’s would need her, that someone, or something would happen, and she really didn’t have to board that plane, but Mary had more or less shoved her towards the gate.

 _Ian_ was meeting her when she landed, their correspondence had strictly taken place through email, despite his number being available for her to use. She’d barely managed to dial the number, before her nerves started to appear, pressing delete hurriedly instead, as she meant he was real. She didn’t need a confirmation by hearing his voice.

Molly had seen photos after all – handsome, rugged, tall, like some male model plucked out from Vogue or Tatler, and obviously he’d have to be – at _that_ price. He’d informed her of the _other_ prices, the ones that were to be kept if she needed ‘company’ post-wedding, or pre-wedding, depending on her mood, but she’d been persistent in stating that there would be no _hanky-panky._

Not exactly _those_ words, as she was at least giving him the idea that she was a serious woman who didn’t have those particular _needs_ – _“You might require it.”_ Those were his words, like she was in a fragile state, like she actually _did_ care that Tom was getting married, and she might have found herself guzzling down some champagne during the flight, but it was due to the mild turbulence that occurred, or at least that’s what she repeatedly told herself mid-drink.

No, there were other worries really - if Ian looked at all like his photographs, and not like a middle-aged short man with glasses, but at this point she’d take anyone. She didn’t care, she’d given up, as it was obvious that the only way she’d have a date was paying for one. When she’d first told Mary, the woman had gone on and on about setting her up with someone, but in the end, she gave way to the idea, “Maybe you’ll learn something.” 

She couldn’t exactly imagine what she’d learn from paying for someone to take her to a wedding, except that even love had a price tag. The whole thing was going to be an unmitigated disaster, and she was sure of it. But Molly kept her back straight, got her passport checked, picked up her luggage, and strode out to arrivals, her trolley held before her. She almost lost her nerve, eyes tearing trough the crowd of people, some waiting for their loved ones, other holding up signs, and she was slightly taken aback to see her name on one of the plaques. She stopped in her stride, taking in the sight of the short middle-aged man donning a suit. Perhaps this was Ian twenty years later, and perhaps, it only served her right, “Miss Hooper?” he said with a thick Italian accent, breaking her thread of thought.

“Ian?” she said hesitantly, blinking at him stupidly.

The man laughed in return. “No, no, miss, I am driver _Michele_. Take you to hotel – Mr Ian wait for you there.” 

“Oh,” she said.  _Thank God._

It hadn’t been a part of the plan, but she was relieved by it nonetheless, despite the suspense increasing on actually meeting the man. Michele however, talked non-stop, his speech a combination of Italian and English, forcing her to bring up her translator, but she kept up the conversation with him happily, concluding that if he had been her date, he wouldn’t have at all been a dreadful one, as she spent the majority of the drive laughing.

“Bella, don’t be sad! Mr Ian will be _magnifico_!” he said, when she turned silent. “Promise!” She only nodded her head, catching the sight of the glamorous looking hotel, which was reserved for all of the guests attending the wedding.

It’s golden arches and fountain making her almost watery-eyed at the sight, a clash of colour and class, and frankly, a bit tacky. Stepping out of the car, she was quickly helped with her luggage, as she waved Michele away, the man throwing her a kiss, before driving speedily off, less mindful of the traffic when she’d left the car.

“Miss Hooper, we will take your luggage to your room – go to reception for your room key,” said a young attendee with a less heavy accent, lugging her bags away, while she strode off to the front desk.

She was given the number of her room and a plastic key card. It had a double bed, and apparently, according to the toothy receptionist was one of their _finest_ rooms. Molly wondered if it was a part of the _package_ , her previous reservation had been a simple room, as she hadn’t really thought they’d be _sharing_. She really hadn’t thought through all of the details, though it was too late when she’d gotten into the lift. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ Her hands physically trembled, her teeth biting harshly into her lower lip, while she bounced on her feet, waiting for the number to turn to seven, the other passengers ignoring her. Finally, the lift stopped at her floor, and she almost ran out, slowing herself down when she saw people staring, and with a furious blush she sought out room 127. _This is it, this is it, and it’s now or never…_ Her hand was poised to enter the key card, but she pursed her lips instead, eyeing the slot with difficulty – _Do not enter_ – was hanging on the door handle.

This didn’t mean her, but she almost obeyed, wanting more than anything to possibly head downstairs to eat, and perhaps do some sightseeing, instead of just getting it over with. _Just do it_ – she popped the card in, slid the door handle down and opened the door.

It was a beautiful room, less flamboyant than the ground floor, but still elegant. She drew for breath, eyeing the spacious room, which certainly didn’t fit the profile she expected. This was a _four stars room_ with its sitting area, large flat-screen telly, large double bed, fresh flowers, and everything that spoke volumes about the price.

Molly wondered bitterly if it was the value of _6000 pounds_ , her frown dropping the second she heard sounds of water running – a shower in fact – and she found her eyes widen – he was there.

 _Of course he’d be there!_ She mentally slapped herself, trying to make herself calm down, immediately pacing, and wondering if it would be rude to pop in to check – but before she’d even managed to collect her thoughts – a man strode out of the bath, a towel barely hanging around his waist.

Dark hair was plastered against his forehead, one large slender hand sliding hair away from his steely blue gaze, as water slid down his pale torso, the towel still arguing against his muscled frame.

Molly’s jaw dropped, her brown eyes taking in the man who stood dripping wet in front of her, not even a tad bit bashful _or_ ashamed.

She went from disbelief to downright anger, her cheeks turning crimson, as she ignored the fact that he was scarcely wearing anything, because he was certainly not the man she was expecting. “Sherlock!” she cried out.

 

 

 


	2. Due

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews! Everyone loves crack obviously! Let the silliness continue!

Whenever she left for a holiday, certain aspects about her daily life had to be considered, like for example where Toby would be while she was gone. Regularly she'd leave him with her neighbour. A few words would be shared, and possibly even a note, but usually that wasn't needed. However, when Molly had to leave St Bart's a list would be made preparing the substitute. Few would in general cope with her job, which was of course being a pathologist, but also handling Sherlock Holmes.

Select few did it with the utmost ease that she seemed to give off, which was why she was normally the only one who did, but it wasn't just a list, in fact it was a file. Upon this were a couple of things, warnings for Stephenson her substitute –  _don't let him antagonise you – don't let him get everything he wants_  –  _and most importantly don't let him get bored._  And she'd always receive a myriad of texts, phone calls pressing her to return, periodically from Stephenson or Sherlock himself, before her flight had even taken off. This time, her phone had been eerily silent, and Molly assumed that perhaps Sherlock had matured, evolved in some way or the other, but as he stood in her hotel room wearing only a towel, she concluded that he probably hadn't.

"Did you follow me here?" she said blinking rapidly up at the man, trying to understand what the hell was going on.

She was used to him mucking about, doing ridiculous things, but those were stories she heard from others, not something she was at first hand to see. Lately he'd even been easier, more pleasant to be with really, and she was glad of it. After all it helped that she had become more certain of herself, letting him know she was very aware when he manipulated her, but – _this_ – was a whole new level of madness.

He raised a brow at her, while she crossed her arms, her mind positively reeling, as the  _metaphorical_  towel dropped, "Oh my God, you're –  _you're_  Ian?" she said, her arms falling to her sides, as she gaped at him.

Sherlock moved past her, heading towards a large black suitcase positioned in front of the bed, "I thought our emails were obvious."

"Our?  _Our?"_  she said with a squeak, her ire rising, and her disbelief beyond anything she'd ever had. He'd done a great deal of things that had infuriated her through the years, but this was certainly new, this wasn't nicking things from the lab or trying to get her to stay late, "But –but-,"

He put the bag on the bed, unzipping it, one hand firmly positioned at his towel, while the other took out clothes, "You will get your money back. No, need to be so shocked." His brows furrowed at her, while he held the clothes in his hand, "Now - do you mind?"

She gaped at him, shaking her head a bit while she tried to understand what he meant, when he gestured with clothes still in his hand at his waist. Moving her eyes to fix themselves on his face instead, she said rather flushed, "Yes, I do mind!"

Obviously he wanted to change, but she wasn't leaving until she got a thorough explanation, even if he was bloody distracting her by dripping all over the place!

He positioned himself rather too close for her liking; instead of taking a step back she stood her ground, looking up at him, becoming even more aware of their height difference.

He tutted loudly, causing her to frown in return, before he began with a roll of his eyes, "About six months ago I had a case that required a great deal of cunning from my side, and for once, without the assistance of John, or else  _this_  wouldn't have happened."

"This?" she said snorting.

"Yes – some male _escorts_  were being threatened, and they contacted me to find the culprit, at which I made a profile to lure the man in. When the case was done I kept it, thinking it might become useful in the future."

He sounded rather angry, which made her even more confused, "Then you contacted me."

"Me? I didn't-'

"No, you unwittingly contacted my fake profile."

She swallowed, redness crawling into her cheeks, "But why would you-," she said, avoiding his eye, before stepping away from him. Molly had written a great deal of silly things in that email, quite a lot in fact, and at that stage it had been presented to a stranger, but obviously not – "But -  _why_  would you say yes?" she said looking up at him.

He had the oddest of expressions on his face, something she'd never really seen before, "Rather obvious, don't you think?" he said softly, a wry smile at his lips, and her shoulders dropped at that.

"It's a case then?" she said with a sigh, hand pressed at her forehead, soon settling down at the settee with all intention of staying there for the remainder of her holiday, which was certainly not resembling the romantic trip she'd imagined (not that being with an escort would have really been romantic, she supposed, but at least better than with  _Sherlock_ ).

He was eerily silent, clearing his throat saying, "Obviously." The expression she was all-to used with appeared, "Now-,"

"Not interested," she said standing up from the settee, bringing her purse with her, "Just send the money into my account and…get your own room. I'm going to the bar and when I get back I don't want you here."

She walked past him, not allowing him to get a word edgewise, as she wasn't keen on listening to whatever had made him ruin her,  _well_ , not so solid plan. Molly had learned her lesson. Apparently this was what Mary had warned her about, and as she stepped out of the room it was with a heavy heart. Years ago, this would have been exactly what she'd dreamt about –  _be careful of what you wish for._

* * *

The bartender had handed her the yellow drink with bits of fruit wordlessly. It was their strongest drink, and the one she'd requested, but it tasted more of mango than anything. She hoped it was one that crept up on one, as she'd rather not feel the sting too keenly.

Everything was a right old mess.

Not only did she not have a _date_  to speak of, now she'd have to contend with having Sherlock in Rome as well, and if that wasn't something to drink over she didn't know what to think. He'd after all read that stupid email, digesting every word, and using her chance – her little beacon of hope – for a case.

It was  _just_  bloody like him, she thought bitterly, wondering if she should just pack her things and get back to London on the next flight. She didn't know if she could cope through an entire wedding without  _some_  mental backup, despite friends being present, but they'd all be constantly torn about her  _suddenly_  being single.

After all everyone had been surprised that she had a boyfriend again to begin with, "The longest relationship you've actually had is –  _well_ – with Sherlock Holmes," Meena had said to her recently.

Didn't she just feel  _super_?

At least the money would be returned, as he was at least a man of his word (sometimes), but she wondered why he'd asked for it to begin with.

Why he'd not just told her about the case instead of stringing her along, letting her believe she was corresponding with an actual human being?

There was no need for any charade. She'd even started to believe he'd gotten long since past that whole bit, but obviously she was in the wrong.

Molly took a long sip of her drink, emptying the contents and soon nibbling on the fruit, before giving the bartender a mournful look, "Another?" he said with a smile, and she nodded back in return.

With another fresh drink in her hand, she mulled over that particular excursion on the Internet when she'd found the blasted profile. Of all the profiles she'd pick, she'd gone and chosen  _his_. If there existed such a thing as faith or Gods, they were all bloody laughing at her.

* * *

"Marcus – his name is Marcus – what do you think Toby?" she asked her cat that lounged on the other end of the sofa, softly meowing in return, "Obviously not, then –  _oh_  – Caesar – must be some Roman theme-," she giggled frightfully at that, "I  _am_  going to Italy after all, well, let's write to him, and if there's no quick reply -," she took a quick swig of her wine, - "I am going stag – never mind the lot of them or  _Ian_."

Perhaps it was a sad sight for some, if they could see her, decked out in just a pair of large pants and a pink cardigan with her glasses perched on her nose, talking loudly to her cat, but she didn't care  _three glasses of wine_  of what anyone else thought.

_Hi Caesar,_

_I'm Molly Hooper. I work as a pathologist in London and am in desperate need of an escort to a wedding. The wedding is on the_ – she quickly deleted that, "No – that's horrible – maybe –," she pressed a finger on her chin thoughtfully, before she proceeded to type.

_Dear Caesar,_

_Honestly I've never done this before in my life, but I've become desperate. I know that any sane person would ask a friend or even possibly their family, but I haven't got loads of that really._

_My ex-fiancé is getting married and I am happy for him, but everyone thinks that if I go alone to this wedding that I want him back. That I'm not over him, but I don't think I was ever under him._

_I don't mean like that, but that I wasn't really in love._

_Tom came into my life when I needed him the most, and he was a solid rock for me those two years. He was absolutely lovely, just really nice, but obviously I don't like nice. And I don't want to bring someone who might think that things could actually happen between us._

_I'm done with all of that._

_There's really no point until I am properly over someone else. This one person is someone who I go from absolutely adoring to absolutely hating, and surprisingly in the span of some few seconds. He's a complete prat to tell you the truth, but I haven't gotten to the point where I am ready to let him go._

_And right now I just really want to be saved._

_I'm always the one helping, doing the right thing and just being there for everyone else. That's what Tom wants when I show up at the wedding, and for once it would be lovely…Actually it would be amazing if there were just one person who'd be there for me, just this once._

_Is it wrong to want to be saved?_

_I'm just a bit done with rescuing, and I know that if this request of just being there with me for this wedding is odd, then you can just ignore this._

_Molly._

* * *

After three drinks she inelegantly walked out of the hotel bar, readying herself in front of the lifts, only to hear her name cried out in the distance. Molly whipped around colliding into a lanky frame, "Tom!" she said wide-eyed, staring up at her cheerful ex, who looked widely different from how she'd last seen him.

He didn't have curly hair anymore, having it straightened instead, and wore an impeccable dark blue suit –a bronze goddess wearing a dress of a similar shade hanging on his arm with a great set of white teeth, "Oh my God – I thought I was early-," Molly said, her smile so strained, her cheeks physically hurt.

"Yeah, well, we needed to check out the place first, some of the others have arrived already, so we thought we'd have an impromptu lunch here – wait – gosh -," Tom chuckled, shaking his head, "Sorry – god – I'm such an idiot – blathering on – Molly – this is  _Polly_ -," the woman's startling sparkly smile lit even more up, as she shook Molly's hand.

"He's told me so much about you, it's really nice to finally meet you – it's your fault, after all that we're together. If you hadn't dumped him he'd never have come to Italy in the first place," said Polly who smiled at Tom who shared the same vapid expression.

Molly pursed her lips slightly, wondering if it was an actual compliment or not, but she was glad that they hadn't – "Where's Ian, then? We've both been dying to meet him-,"  _oh bloody hell…_

"Oh – umm -," her eyes went to the lift longingly, but she directed her attention to the couple in front of her instead, "- the thing is – he's actually-," her cheeks were heating up, but it was now or never…

"Molly!"

She froze on the spot, even more so when a sturdy arm slipped around her waist, her eyes shutting at the contact, before she reopened her eyes to see Tom's utterly bewildered face – "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" he said looking utterly flabbergasted.

_Oh brilliant._

His face was one of the reasons she'd wanted to send Sherlock off in the first place, but obviously he really wanted to cock up everything. Of course he wouldn't listen to her, when she needed him to listen the most!

– "The  _boyfriend_ , yes," Sherlock said smirking, "I heard you say something about lunch? We'd be delighted to come, but I have to steal her away for just one second." She hated it when he went all  _common-folk_ , pretending he was an actual human being, all smiley-faced and charming, "Do you mind?"

"Of course not! We'll see you two in about an hour, then?" said Tom grinning at them, "Honestly, I always thought you two…" he faltered for a second, pink appearing in his cheeks, " – well – we'll see you."

Him and Polly moved off with Polly whispering things into Tom's ear, looking not-too happy anymore.

Molly honestly shared the feelings as she dislodged herself from Sherlock's arm, "I told you to leave, not to invite yourself to lunch!" she said not even disguising her annoyance with the man.

His blue-green eyes narrowed at her at once, "The wedding is a part of the case," he whispered.

"Oh," she said exasperated, "Why couldn't you just have told me?"

"You told me  _not_  to tell you if I recall correctly?" he said with a raised eyebrow, as she huffed in return, striding off to the lifts with him hot at her heels.

Crossing her arms, she said out of the corner of her mouth, "I don't want you to ruin his wedding." He was obviously going to go with her upstairs, and whatever she said against it wouldn't help.

"I am not here to ruin his wedding."

"No, obviously you're here to ruin everything for  _me_  instead," she snapped as the lifts doors opened, entering with him quickly following her.

"Naturally," he said, as the doors closed on them.

She fixed a beady eye on him, taking in the pleased smile plastered on his face, and his hands held behind his back. He was in one of his suits with a white shirt of course, looking flawless as always to her utter grief, "Not funny, Sherlock," she said, a giggle escaping her lips despite herself. Hurriedly she pressed the number seven, "But obviously I'm not going to get rid of you so easily, am I?"

"Nope."

She didn't want to give the impression she was at all happy with him being there, since she  _wasn't_ , but she suspected the drinks made everything a bit funnier than usual. And she really needed a laugh, even if it was at the expense of herself, since John Watson had gone through worse – his blog was daily proof.

"Okay, then – we're going to have to set some rules," she said after some few seconds of silence.

He looked utterly lost at that, blinking rapidly at her, "Rules?" he said disgruntled.

She scoffed, "Of course we're going to have rules – you hate parties and gatherings and weddings in general – so please – just  _behave_."

He opened his mouth, closing it, before he said, "Oh, well, that shouldn't be too difficult."

Molly giggled, "That's not a part of the rules Sherlock – that's how other people behave normally."

"Sounds dull," he said, but she swore she saw him smiling.

It was unnerving seeing him so pleased. Obviously the case that had landed into his lap was amazing, or he wouldn't have bothered to come this far for it.

Not that  _any_  of it made her feel easy whatsoever.

* * *

He had gotten several emails through that particular profile, most of which he deleted immediately, not seeing the point of accumulating a bunch of requests that would make John's eyebrows disappear into his hairline, but Sherlock had been absolutely at a loss when he'd seen hers.

He read the email so many times he lost count.

In the end, he couldn't stop himself – he replied –

_Molly,_

_When is the wedding? I'd be delighted to escort you._

_Caesar_


	3. Tre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how this took me an age, which it shouldn't have at all, but that's because of 'personal' stuff. All is well-ish, so hopefully more frequently updated from now on.

He was obviously not going to get his own room, nor did it ever seem like he intended to, opening their shared room easily with his own key card, while she grimaced at him. 'Caesar' – frankly, only one man would opt to use the name of a Roman Emperor, and it was the man in front of her, willing to be _Ian_.

She should have been suspicious with the ease the man spoke with in their emails, encouraging her deceit entirely, as _he'd_  lured her in with a fake picture and a nice profile. Now she'd landed herself in, well – there was no  _arm landing_ , since the man wasn't exactly huge on romance, except in playing besotted. Proved easily by the way he'd duped that woman Janine (poor woman) or manipulated people in general, her included.

Perhaps this was why he'd been very nice to her lately, bringing her coffee, taking time to talk to her more, and actually not being a pain in the arse, because he was readying her for  _this._  For some time she'd thought most of his behaviour had been rather sincere, of course, maybe he'd just turned up the acting a notch, or she just couldn't read him anymore.

"I'm not sleeping on the sofa," she said quickly, walking past him the minute the door was open, eyeing the bed firmly, tossing him a look.

Molly was too used to him throwing her out of her own bed, and she wasn't having it now. Surprisingly enough he didn't argue, just giving a silent nod, as he shut the door to the hotel room. She readied herself, knowing he'd explain in full-length of what his case was about, showcasing his usual brilliance and importance, but was surprised when she sat down on the end of the bed - by his silence.

Sherlock had brought up his camera phone, peering at it with furrowed brows, and looking if not rather agitated.

"Aren't you-," she started.

"On a need to know basis-," he said, not even looking at her or letting her finish her sentence. Clearly something was bothering him, and her nerves rose.

"It isn't serious…is it?" she said slowly, trying to gauge his reaction, though he turned his back to her, one hand stuffed in his pocket, while his phone was pressed to his ear.

"Hello  _brother_ ," he said ignoring her.

Molly glared at the back of his head, wondering why he'd reverted to his old behaviour, and almost dropped down on the bed with a groan, until she fetched her own phone disappearing into the bathroom.

"I'll leave that to your deductions," he said in the distance, while she locked the door behind her.

In her current situation she knew one person who'd understand, and who'd most likely come with encouraging words about how this wasn't the worst situation in the world. And that there was in fact a bright side in having the one you were hopelessly in love with, as your date to your ex-fiancé's wedding (coincidentally the one your ex-fiancé suspected you were hopelessly in love with in the first place). Molly snorted in disbelief over her own thoughts, quickly pressing at her screen, "Hello…Mary?"

* * *

This was why he didn't do romance.

Obviously he had been wrong, something he rarely conceded to, but under the circumstance - seeing her absolutely horrified face certainly underlined her complete objection to his appearance, unlike his own personal hope. John had been right, and frankly it pissed him off. With one deft turn, not letting her read his expression of mild confusion; he rang the only man he knew would know what to do.

"Hello  _brother_."

He heard the smug laughter on the other end, "Went wrong, didn't it?" said John after some few seconds.

"I'll leave that to your deductions," he said, instantly relieved when he heard the bathroom door lock, knowing she was most likely doing the same, but with Mary whom she'd grown very fond of.

"Right, so that bad then? What did you do?"

He turned his head towards the bathroom, hearing Molly's muted voice behind the door, which turned shrill in some instances, and made his own insides crawl. She was certainly unhappy, and he was the source of that unhappiness, "I didn't do anything…Molly assumed I was here for a case."

"And you told you her you weren't, right?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, frowning, hearing John's sigh, "I told you it would have been better if you'd just told her while you both were still in London, instead of being bloody romantic!" John hissed.

"This is _not_  my idea of romance, John."

"Of course it isn't! Your idea of romance is tricking the woman you love apparently! I can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

He felt the immediate pang in his chest, like he often did these days regarding Molly Hopper. Since he'd not managed to say, let alone think of the word love, which John so casually threw out every time they spoke about the pathologist. Sherlock did feel something, something undeniable, and something that he knew he'd felt for a long time, but kept distancing himself from for years. After all, she'd gotten engaged, and he'd plainly assumed that she was over him, except the email proved to him that she wasn't.

"John - may I remind you that your involvement was strictly shaking your head in disapproval-," he said smirking.

"Not like you let me get a word edgewise-,"

Sherlock snorted, looking down at the floor for a few seconds, " – Now – will you help me?"

"With what exactly? I think it's fairly obvious what you're going to do now isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked, his mouth pursed, soon hearing John release a sigh on the other end, "You have no idea what you're going to do – do you?"

"Umm… _well_ -,"

* * *

"Just tell him to bugger off!" said Mary who'd gotten into a right old shock about  _Ian_. Molly had tried to word it in a way that didn't make it obvious she was furious, but Mary saw through her bouts of false laughter very easily.

"I can't – Tom thinks I lied about 'Ian', and now he thinks that Ian is Sherlock - so sending him off might give off the wrong idea."

"You could just tell him the truth?"

"Oh, yes, I hired a prostitute for your wedding – turns out the prostitute was Sherlock…I don't think that's going to go over really well-,"

"It might," said Mary who began to downright laugh, with Molly joining her, "Oh God – that first meeting must have been awful?"

"Wasn't helped with Polly being-,"

"She's a bitch?"

"No-," said Molly with wide eyes, "She just, you know - how some people can be – just a tad bit-,"

"Bitchy, yeah, I know – trust me, you're enemy number one to her – ex-fiancé at a wedding – not good."

"I'd rather have her cross, than Sherlock here."

"You might never know, it could turn out alright – let him watch some youtube videos on how to be boyfriend, and he'll probably manage to do something."

* * *

"Maybe you should – I don't know - mental idea here - tell her the truth? That you wanted to go with her? Like I told you to do all bloody along – for God's sakes it's not that difficult, is it?"

"It does sound simple enough, except-,"

"Except  _what_?

"Well I did have a backup-plan if the first one backfired…"

"A backup-plan?"

"Yes, amazingly enough I do, John."

"Then why the hell did you phone me up?"

"I wanted out from discussing the case with Molly."

"What case?"

"The one Molly thinks I'm working on – do pay attention -,"

"Right – I suppose she's in the loo or something now?"

"Yes, so, pointless if we keep this up. I am after all going to prove to her that I am  _boyfriend material_."

John guffawed on the other end, "Sorry did you  _actually_  just say that – 'boyfriend material'?"

He scoffed, "Is that so unbelievable?"

"Yes! If she finds out that you lied to her-,"

"She won't-,"

"But if-,"

"She'll fall madly into my arms – yes –  _yes_  I know-,"

"No, she won't! Women don't like that men lie."

"Yet you do quite often – and you're a married – ah, she's returning – pretend like nothing when Mary speaks to you later."

" _What?"_  and with that he hung up, giving Molly who'd returned a brief smile, as he stuffed his camera phone away, intent on 'using' it frequently to make her think he was in fact onto something, before gradually picking it up less.

"So lunch?" he said all-too cheerily, while she frowned at him in return.


	4. Quattro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (insert apology) (insert gracious thanks) (insert wink wink smiley face)

John snorted in disbelief over his phone. He wasn't really surprised Sherlock had hung up on him, though he really did need a laugh. Changing nappies constantly did take a bit out of him, despite his attempt at constantly soldering on.

"So…how much is he going to cock it up, then?" a familiar voice said, and he turned to see his wife leaning against the doorframe.

"A lot," he said chuckling, "But he'll learn – I  _hope_."

She grinned at him, "Can't neglect our other child, I suppose. Speaking of which – she needs a bit of a change…" he tried not to frown, "- kidding…it's my turn."

* * *

"Don't – umm – talk too much," she'd said that about five times the last hour. There were supposed to be rules, but she didn't have the time to bother him about it.

Her nerves about lunch had certainly started to blossom, as the charade was apparently something she'd just have to live with, that and the fact that she wasn't going to learn much more about the case he was working on, if one ignored his short answer - " _Not related to the wedding."_

Molly didn't exactly see how he'd have enough time to pretend to be her boyfriend  _and_  work on his case, but Sherlock had assured her _, "It's barely an eight."_

She neglected to point out that she felt it was rather silly of him to fly over to Italy for less than an eight, especially since he often let John fly ahead of him for some inane reason or the other, but she suspected that  _babies_ probably made that idea impossible. Not that she didn't think that John wouldn't love a brief high-adrenaline vacation considering dirty nappies and screaming children, but even he had his limit.

"Yes, I know," said Sherlock eyeing her in the lift, giving a weary sigh, obviously already tired of her constantly having to remind him of how to behave like a human being, but frankly, he did have the fantastic ability of deducing people to weeping messes.

In most cases she'd stand admiring in the safe distance, but in this particular party of people she'd rather not make too much of a public blunder. She'd already brought along the very factor to why Tom and her didn't really properly work out, more or less rubbing it under his nose, and so it was important they didn't really stand out. Of course she knew she'd not exactly chosen the best dress for the occasion, opting for a bright red, which Sherlock had briefly blinked at when she'd appeared from the bathroom.

It didn't feel right to be wearing trainers and her beige trousers for something that she suspected would be laden with people in extravagant clothing from the get-go, especially considering the fact that Sherlock's style of dress was immaculate. After all it wouldn't seem convincing if she opted for a t-shirt bought at the airport, since they were already a very unlikely pair.

"You look well, Molly," said Sherlock all of a sudden, forcing her to look at him, but he wasn't staring at her.

"Thank you?" she said baffled.

He was eyeing the solid elevator doors, until they were barred open and the pair of them were back on the ground floor, facing another of what she could only suspect would be an excruciating event from beginning to end.

It didn't exactly help that Sherlock seemed rather exceptionally cold even for him, stiff and unsure for some odd reason, though she understood that he hated social occasions, and regularly kept his distance if it was remotely possible, but she'd think he'd manage to play the part. All of this of course prompted her to do something rather mad.

For someone in a relationship it would have been absolutely normal, but _actually_  holding Sherlock's hand was threading into rather dangerous waters. The second she did it, sliding hers into his, she wanted to pull back.

She could feel the visible tension in his hand and see the familiar arched brow of his. But instead of hunching down about it, she calmly walked out of the lift with him, her smaller hand enfolded in his.

Their relationship or well friendship or  _well_ – 'something' - didn't involve hugs or brief kisses on the cheek, so it was difficult for her not to feel rather hysterical on the inside. Molly almost felt like laughing at her bravery, despite the fact that kids at the age of thirteen probably did more than hold hands these days, but this was amazing – even for him.

She thought he'd wrench his hand away, at least, but he didn't. Quickly, before her mind started to overthink his willingness to the physical contact she reminded herself that he'd managed to pretend to be in a relationship a while back, so holding her hand shouldn't in fact be challenging for either of them. Despite her hand pushing out sweat, almost forcing her to wipe her hand on her dress, but she persisted, feeling her hand almost visibly throb in his very large one.

"Is this okay?" she said in a low voice, while they headed over to the portion of the hotel, which was the restaurant.

She knew it was a pointless question really. If he didn't approve he'd certainly back away quickly, but she didn't want to occupy his space more than necessary.

"It's fine," he said, and she was grateful to see the tension that had appeared in him earlier clear off, briefly taken aback when he cleared his throat and tangled their fingers together properly. They finally reached their table where people smiled at her, before several of their smiles dropped at the sight of him, their mouths turning into large gaping holes.

_Oh Christ._

* * *

Ideally he'd rather administrate himself a sedative than be  _the celebrity_ , which considering the astonished expressions on people's faces he was, and from the way Molly quickly pulled her hand hand from his, she certainly didn't want it to play out like this.

"Oh my God - are  _you_  dating Sherlock Holmes?" said one woman, gaping like some red-lipped fish, exhibiting a lack of decorum, while she ogled Molly in disbelief.

 _Single. Revealing deep cut dress. Apparently seeking attention from this venture, assuming it'll follow the traditional path of finding someone as a bridesmaid. Too easy,_  he thought.

Sherlock raised a brow, "Yes," he said coolly, unable to keep away the smirk at the sight of the woman's eyes turning downwards, her cheeks flushing, and he realised, "Did I say that out loud?" Several of the people at the table blinked up at him in bewilderment, though none of them seemed keen on blurting any outright remarks or hurtling anything in Molly's way, "Oh."

Slowly he turned to look at Molly's face, her expression was rather unreadable, as she was furiously biting at her lips, making the blood surge to them, like she would when she was thinking, but he caught the hint of amusement in her eyes. At least he assumed it was, since he often saw her give that same expression in his presence, when he'd done something funny. "Not good?" he questioned, trying to look a semblance of guilty, but she averted her eyes instead, leading them to a pair of vacant chairs at the long table.

Neither Tom nor his fiancé  _Polly_  were present, which made it less likely for Molly to lash out towards his behaviour, at which John would have pointedly made him apologize (poorly). However, he was pleasantly surprised to find Molly chose a completely different tactic.

"Sorry, it's his kind of humour, Iris. Don't mind him," she said shrugging at their sitting companion, who turned out to be the offended woman in question.

"Didn't mean to be rude," said Iris with wide eyes, sending him a lopsided grin, "You're quite right…it's a bit of a tight-fitting dress, really – thanks for noticing. No one else has."

Sherlock blinked, "Thank you?" he said with furrowed brows.

"I've noticed!" said a man outraged at the table, face red, and his glass filled to the brim with white wine, "I've been-," Sherlock immediately ignored the conversation, eyeing the man, intending to give his negative comment on Iris pursuing him, when he felt a soft hand on his thigh, "Don't," whispered Molly, her brown eyes searching his, "She can-,"

"Oh shut up Peter – you fancy everything with legs," said Iris in response to the man's advances, and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by the exchange.

"- take care of herself," he finished off, aware that Molly's hand was certainly lingering on his thigh, though she didn't seem to be aware it was still presently there, or at all embarrassed by her action.

"You might be able to know what people are planning, but it doesn't mean you know what they want," she said with a small smile, her hand disappearing from his thigh and his confidence evaporating. He had already done the opposite of good, not that he expected to excel in everything he put his head into (' _well'_ ), though he hardly expected to have already managed to insult someone – "And thank you," he heard her whisper, though her hand did not land on his thigh this time.

"What?" he said mildly caught off guard by Molly's sudden outburst.

She did that constantly, always putting him out of his comfort zone so to speak, constantly making him question himself. However, for once she seemed to be rather confused by his lack of understanding, "For coming to my defence… You didn't really need to and I didn't really expect-,"

"Why wouldn't I?" he said, slightly affronted, but before she could answer they were interrupted by the table jeering loudly.

The bride and groom had arrived.

* * *

Not very long ago, seconds in fact, if she was keeping score, she'd sworn that this entire thing wouldn't turn out so badly after all. All of those hopes dashed off the second Tom reared his not-curly head at their table, with his Polly dangling at his side again with her sparkly smile.

"Lovely to see you all!" said Polly, giving a tiny wave, swooping soon down to several at the table, giving them quick kisses on the cheeks, without leaving her lipstick on anyone's cheek, and consciously avoiding Molly's seat.

Not that Polly opted to give Sherlock a bear hug either, but Molly knew that Sherlock certainly noticed this action, and so did the others around the table.

"Having drinks already?" said Tom who'd settled in his chair instead of greeting everyone with hugs, a nervous sort of energy hovering over him, and Molly didn't need to be an consulting detective to figure out that the couple had just had a row. And she was rather certain she knew what about, considering the fact that Polly threw her a glare when she got seated, before putting on another dazzling smile.

People raised their glasses however, the instant the sound of cutlery hit glass and Molly was happy about the distraction. "Tom," said Marcus, his best mate bearing a huge grin, "I know this isn't the dinner before the wedding, and it's probably not the time for a speech either, but I'm glad to see you happy. Honestly, I've never seen you so happy-," she agreed – "Obviously you've chosen the right girl  _this_  time-," people were staring at her – "To Tom and Moll – I mean Polly –  _Polly_ -," the laughter that came was loud, almost unbearable, and Molly kept her eyes fixed on her plate, not wanting to see if Polly herself was looking at her, but her eyes suddenly swung upwards when she felt a firm hand on her hands folded on her lap.

"We're supposed to be a couple, aren't we?" Sherlock murmured into her ear, causing her to stare at him, but she was rather glad he'd managed to see her discomfort.

If only he'd picked up on that years before, really, and she grinned, before she slowly slid out of his grip. Knowing him he was probably still on the edge that she'd touched his thigh without thinking, and she gave a slight nod in return.

Another tinkle of the glass happened.

This time it was Iris who slowly stood up and Molly clapped her hands together approvingly. She'd known her for years and considering how different the pair of them was in some ways, it was remarkable how they'd managed to stay as friends.

"I know I might not be one of the lads, but I think you can all thank me for this. If I hadn't introduced Molly to Tom none of this would have happened -," she felt like groaning – wondering where on earth Iris was going with this – " – since then she'd never dump him, and he'd never have met Polly. Everyone ended up with who they should have, and after all –  _shag-a-lot_  Holmes might actually keep up with Molly for once-," Molly should never have worried about Sherlock cocking anything up really. Honestly, her friends did well enough on their own, " – but Tom – jokes aside – I do mean that - really I do – here's to the bride and groom!"

She wondered why her glass was still empty; honestly it should have been long since full and she searched the restaurant beseechingly for a waiter, but one more round of that doomed cutlery began, except from a completely different source, mainly the one sat besides her. Her eyes could not be any wider at the sight, recalling that very instant who'd done the same, except for a very different reason. A pair of eyes were fixed on her the very instant Sherlock's chair scraped against the floor, his expression the one of severity and she wanted nothing more than to force him to sit down. There was nothing he could really say that would in fact help the situation, since it would certainly only worsen the afternoon. But despite her wordless stare, he seemed to be rather confident in his abilities, "I don't know any of you."

It wasn't exactly a lie, "Neither am I good at speeches, but I will say one thing -," he looked pointedly at Iris, an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes, "I do keep up."

Of all things she thought he'd say –  _that -_ certainly wasn't it.


	5. Cinque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (you say "what?" i say "yes")

In any other circumstance,  _any other,_ perhaps even his fake funeral she'd rather have heard him pop out of his coffin saying that, than on her ex-fiancé's pre-marital lunch.

Whatever reaction he'd been expecting, the deafening silence that followed wasn't it, especially with the way he so smugly winked at them all. Despite this, his confidence didn't seem to deflate for a single second, for the mere hint of a knowing smirk played at his lips. Molly shut her eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, but watched soon in amazement at the laughter that thankfully came bursting forward, some even shouting, "Hear, hear!" She'd thought she'd be have to excuse herself from the table, before returning to London with a one-way-ticket.

Instead all of the sensation of doom that had loomed over her during the other's  _speeches_  flickered away, and she was left laughing her self, almost not believing that he of all people had made a sex-joke. Him! Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock who got unbelievably awkward every time she brought up the word. The man who'd change the topic quicker than you could say 'sex', which was a word he seemed to constantly avoid if he had the chance. This very man who sat down again smoothly in his seat, luckily not divulging in  _how_  he was keeping up, which she really wished no one would ask him about, but at least on that scale they were reasonable. She was quite certain that several of the women present would most likely corner him for explicit details if they could, especially considering the way he sat down so smoothly, giving off the air of sublime knowledge on 'sex' (maybe he'd borrowed John's laptop again).

Tom's mouth was half-open, a crinkle visible between his brows, before he carefully said, "Right, thank you…I think?" Obviously Tom once again thought Sherlock was pissed, and it seemed fairly logical. She was just glad she'd sobered up enough to not do something stupid like stab him with a fork, or act like a complete idiot herself. Somehow she could easily see in Tom's eyes that he'd noticed that very thing, which was perhaps why he bore a thin smile in the end, "It's lovely to have you all here though, speeches aside that is."

No one rose to the occasion anymore, conversation taking over hand, about some of the delights of Rome, others about how much they'd drunk, while she was wringing her hands in slight discomfort. Being ignored didn't turn out to be an option, though obviously –  _ridiculed_  – was. Evidently Sherlock felt that should be done on their own terms, which was a blessing, despite the fact that she'd thought of them as a ' _them'._

They weren't a couple after all, and she hastily reminded herself the importance of not forgetting that, or else she'd be sulking about in her flat some weeks after. She didn't want to revert into some hapless being about him. After all, she was too old, she'd been through too much to be dazzled by his crystal blue eyes or alluring dark curly hair –  _no, don't…no_  – "I hope several of you are keen on joining me and Polly on a minor excursion tonight, since she knows the city better than most."

His fiancé gave him a playful slap of the arm, giggling at the compliment.

Lunch was one thing. But the idea of spending the rest of the day with everyone, bustling about Rome was certainly not a good idea, especially with Sherlock in tow.

"I'm afraid Molly and I will have to turn down that wonderful offer, Tom – we've already got plans," said Sherlock, almost looking sincere, which was remarkable even for him. She was just glad he'd somehow managed to remember Tom's name, which was usually an impossible feat even for him.

Quickly she nodded, taking hurried sips of her now full glass of wine, while she ignored the jealous glances of everyone else. They weren't the only ones who wanted an out from what she suspected would be a tourist-like tour.

"I've been here often enough to know that it is the city of _love_ ," added Sherlock, who looked rather thoughtful.

"Oh?" said Tom, "Are you going to upstage us all, then?" his boyish grin large.

"Most likely," said Sherlock who was holding out his empty glass to the waiter who poured wine into it, "But I'd rather not tell Molly of my plans. It's supposed to be a _secret_ \- after all."

' _What plans?'_  she wondered. Until another thought came pushing forward - Oh the case!  _Of course_  the case! His hands were suddenly wrapped around his phone, sweeping his thumb against the screen, before he pocketed it, "Well – we could probably go the same way?" said Tom, turning towards Polly, "Couldn't we sweetie?"

Polly didn't look like she wanted to follow any other route or plan; neither did Molly see the point of Tom trying to coerce her, when it was supposedly a romantic evening for two. He was inviting himself, completely oblivious to the fact that someone might misread his intentions, and she could see everyone else's worried look.

For once, she actually pitied Polly, since she'd been in the similar place herself.

"It's the brides choice if she wants to change her already appointed plans for a brief whim of the moment," said Sherlock, directing his gaze toward Tom who still didn't catch on.

It was Polly's turn to speak – "If Sherlock has a better idea, I'd love to see it – after all – I grew up here," she said with a smile, which looked like a thinly veiled threat.

* * *

 

Molly was leaning against the hotel door for support, her face in her hands, before she strode away from the door, annoyance clear in every feature of her body. Of all things he hadn't thought that Tom would want to ingratiate himself into their plans. This wasn't supposed to be a competition, but obviously, in some aspects it was.

"Do you actually have a plan?" she asked him, her brows knitted together, "Or?" She was rather distracting in that colour and in that dress, not that she was aware of it, but he cleared his throat to give the impression he was thinking.

"Yes," he said giving her a quick smile, "Don't worry, Molly." He had a handful of contacts after all, and an extensive knowledge of her DVD collection, which surprisingly came in handy for the occasion. Not that she'd remotely understand what he was plotting, though he suspected that it would be much more entertaining now. She most likely still believed he was occupied with his  _case_.

"You can just drop me off at the hotel, it'll be alright-," she said, " – I'll watch the telly or something. We've got a mini bar for a reason." Her nervous giggle appeared, the one that would usually brighten up her features, but he sensed that she wasn't glad about that particular plan, neither was he.

"Actually…I'm going to need your help," he said slowly, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

She looked rather pleased at the thought, instantly lighting up to his relief, "Oh, really?"

"I could have easily gone alone. I've done so before."

"I know…I just assumed I was a cover."

"No, you're not," he scoffed, "Anyone would recognise you as _my_ pathologist after all, if they have half a brain."

A pleasant flush appeared in her cheeks, "Your pathologist? That's a bit-," immediately she stopped talking, clearly regretting her frame of thought, which he hoped would return in due time, "That's nice…"

Instantly he occupied himself with his phone, giving a text to an old friend, hoping he would keep his promise, but he highly suspected he would.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her, after he put his phone away.

"Starving," she said with a grimace. He knew she'd barely touched her food during lunch, and he also knew that the moped would be outside the hotel in ten minutes.


	6. Sei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're still reading this? I'm astonished. Thank you.

"Our transport is waiting for us outside the hotel," he murmured to her, his finger pressed on the ground floor button, the doors closing on them in the otherwise empty lift.

Her fists were clenched, her expression rather more serious than it needed to be, but she felt rather excited on the prospect of bolting, whatever the case was. It seemed rather grim, if Sherlock's facial expression was anything to go on, he looked rather restless, constantly checking his watch.

They could be dealing with a simple domestic from all she knew, and she'd still rather do that, but she didn't entirely get why her changing was ' _out of the question'_. Wearing something practical would have been better, since she could hardly run in her dress or her flats. Her clothes weren't exactly ones used for detecting anything, though she supposed that Sherlock didn't exactly dress practical either, constantly wandering about in shirts with buttons that almost seemed to long to pop off.

When the lift dinged for the ground floor, the doors bursting open - he grabbed her hand. Molly blanched at the contact of his hand with hers, wondering if her previous initiating would prompt more of this kind of behaviour in the future. But as he pulled her alongside him, she didn't think too hard about the unnecessary handholding, or the faint smell of his dark scented musk, as her adrenaline had kicked up a notch on the idea of  _eloping_. His eyes swept over the reception, and she knew he was determining whether or not it was a good moment to make their escape.

"Molly, there's something I need to tell you-," he began, turning briefly toward her, his voice unexpectedly ragged, "I think you need to know that there isn't-," the almost boyish grin on his face dropped the second they'd crossed the threshold, swallowing fresh air, as Tom's voice shot out ahead of them -

"Oh, good! We wondered where you'd gone off to really. How about it, then? Ready to show us your Rome, Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

Her stomach made a loud groaning noise, causing the others to snigger, while she crossed her arms squinting against the wavering gleams of sunlight. It was getting darker now, unsurprisingly. After all, they'd wandered for three hours and her feet were killing her, due to the humid air making her flats cling, biting into the skin of her feet. The  _tourists_  had certainly cut their escape short, making whatever case Sherlock had intended to take forgotten, though he hardly needed to stay, after all he could make a rude escape, while she couldn't. Molly wished she was more rude, preferably that she'd told Tom to stuff it the second he'd popped unexpectedly upon them, since obviously Sherlock was about to tell her about the case, but all that was forgotten. Instead they were induced to attend Polly's almost sermon like utterances about architecture, removing all the magical aspects of Rome, despite all her bright smiles, "It was designed by Italian architect Nicola Salvi-," said Polly in a loud voice, gesturing to the fountain, while Molly heard Iris groan in the back of the crowd, "Legend has it that in 19 BC Roman soldiers-,"

"Isn't that interesting?" said Tom who was a constant commentator to whatever Polly said, to everyone's consternation. Even his best mate Marcus lost it at some point, mumbling about him " _getting shagged thoroughly"._  Sherlock's grand tour was a thing of the past, especially since he admitted that he didn't have one, which surprised her, though he was constantly on his phone for some reason. Obviously the case had to be dealt with somehow, though she hardly thought he could solve it all on his phone, but he did look rather aggravated. Not that anyone else looked excessively happy by the current situation, most of them half-asleep by the look of it. Several were planning on calling it a night, excusing themselves away for a drink or two, since there were several places they'd past already, where the scent of mouth-watering food wafted towards her, grimly reminding her that she still hadn't eaten.

"- leading into the city, which was named Aqua Virgo, or Virgin Waters-,"

She stared at the fountain, amazed by the sculptures and vaguely jealous of the people who were carefree surrounding it, but was startled when she felt a pull at her arm. Suddenly she became aware of Sherlock standing besides her, for he'd been keeping a irritating distance throughout the whole, most likely crawling into his mind palace for support during the whole affair, but here he was now, grabbing hold of her closed hand gently, before pricing it open.

In it he put a large coin, "You're supposed to make a wish," he whispered into her ear.

Gaping slightly at him, she clutched it in her hand, before throwing it into the fountain. She wasn't the only one of course, others did the same, but most of them were coupled up, though  _technically_ she was too. Though she hardly expected anything remotely magical to happen.

"What did you wish?" he asked.

Looking up at him, she was somehow surprised by the rather confident gleam in his eyes, like he knew what she wanted, and the instant she thought of telling him, despite it being everyone's wish the sound of a motor was heard.

People quickly jumped out of the way, gasping at the sight of moped driving through the crowd of people. On it a young man was sat quickly stopping short in front of them, with the engine still running.

"What's going on?" said Polly, clearly distraught by the interruption, before speaking in rapid Italian looking livid, but the young man ignored her, directing his attention to Sherlock who he handed his helmet to.

Before Molly knew it, her wish was very much granted.

* * *

When she'd told herself to avoid reading too much into the subsequent situation he'd put them both in, it was becoming more and more difficult. From  _my pathologist_ to secret getaways, it was all getting rather confusing, especially since he still hadn't gone off on a large tangent about what the case was about. She supposed an explanation would burst out of him the second they were eating, like he suggested, which again, was outside the norm for him, since he never ate during a case, yet she'd seen him eat his plate clean during lunch, so he shouldn't even consider her being hungry. And now, here they were on a light blue Vespa, "A friend owned me a favour," he half-shouted, while they drove through traffic, and she was gripping on to him for dear life.

Molly tried not to compare her current situation to one particular scene in one of her favourite movies, but it was futile really, it was already out there.

"We watched that movie together, didn't we? Roman Holiday?" she said, though she couldn't hear his answer properly, due to the helmet on her head.

Her flat being his bolthole had always come with some certain disadvantages, at least from his perspective, most certainly, since she'd forced him to view a countless amount of romantic comedies out of pure cheek when he'd braved her doorstep.

Roman Holiday was one of them, with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn driving through Rome, which was frankly for her, some years back - the idea of romance.

It really was something to view the beautiful buildings, and stunning scenery, while pressed up against him (not that she tried to think  _too_ much about that) – people, cars, whizzing past them, as he snuck through traffic rather easily to the annoyance of some honking vehicles. There was something rather easy about it all, which it frankly shouldn't have been, and she yelped slightly, when he prompted her to, "Get a better hold of me!" Almost forcing her to dig her nails into his shirt, making her all too aware of the tightness of his shirt. She was practically clinging to him, which was certainly a step up from handholding. Again, he'd ridden on a motorbike with Mary and she daresay that Mary didn't care about that, neither did Sherlock.

When they finally did stop, her legs were the definition of wobbly, and she was half-afraid she'd have trouble to get off the vehicle, but Sherlock took hold of her waist and guided her off it. He'd clearly noticed she'd waste a huge amount of time doing it on her own, clearly, or so she told herself, but when he proceeded to remove the helmet from her head, she did stare up at him rather bewildered. Unlike her, he seemed rather unmoved by the whole ordeal; like this was something they did every single day – riding mopeds in the middle of Rome on a summer's day.

"Come," he said, holding both of their helmets in his hands, directing her attention to the restaurant they'd parked outside of.

She wondered briefly if he'd hold her hand,  _if_ he didn't have to hold the helmets, but she shook the thought away when they got to the restaurant. It was a rather small restaurant filled to the brim with people, though one rickety looking table was vacant – a small sign that said  _riservato._  An old, stocky gentlemen appeared by them grinning broadly, and speaking a rapid amount of Italian, while taking hold of Sherlock's face, giving him swift kisses, which he grimaced slightly of, but the man seemed undeterred laughing. "You bring lady friend?" said the man, who spoke with a thick accent, "Good. Good. You have best table. Best table for the man who saved my life!"

Sherlock scoffed lightly at that, though Molly saw a glimpse of pride in his eyes, while she giggled lightly at the thought of  _lady friend,_ "Sit! Sit!"

Soon they settled down, and the helmets were taken care of by one of waiters who swooped in, before giving them wine, "I ordered for us, no point in wasting time," said Sherlock, as he waved the menus away.

Molly raised her brows, about to ask about the patron of the restaurant, though clearly Sherlock had other things on his mind, "Oh, right, so where are we going after this, then?" she asked.

Obviously this was just a tiny stop, before they'd get at it, so to speak.

"I thought of the gardens of the Villa Borghese – if you climb the steep hill behind Trastevere and the Gianicolo – there's a beautiful spot there, rather quiet…" he wasn't looking at her directly, his eyes were fixed elsewhere, "Since you've never been to Rome before - _well_  – you were here when you were six with your father."

"You remember that?"

"Of course. I remember everything you say," he said slightly baffled, finally looking at her.

It was a claim she could easily argue against.

There were several things she always felt he just neglected to listen to, ignoring her entirely, especially something like this. This was her mouth shooting off without thought, knowing he probably wasn't bothered a second with his occasional feigned throaty sound of agreement. Often she'd compare him to one of the dummies they had lying around to show students what to do, giving the same wordless response.

"You do? Really… _everything_?" she said doubtfully, since there were certainly some things she'd said that she rather he forgot, immediately, if even possible. He said he could delete useless information after all – why wasn't her life considered useless information?

"Yes. Everything," he said seriously.

Maybe it was the way he looked at her, his almost serious blue eyed stare, or the way his hand rested on the table very close to hers, or perhaps the way he proceeded to look down on the table, almost as if he'd made a mistake, "Oh," she said in a small voice, "Tom's involved, isn't he? You're just trying to soften the blow. It's alright Sherlock, you can tell me. Whatever it is, I know you can fix it."

* * *

Progress, he thought he'd been making progress. Evidently he was inching further away from the actual goal, especially as Molly kept looking at him expectantly, as if there was in fact a case. He knew rather well that she wasn't deliberately trying to be obtuse, but that she probably didn't dare assume he entertained such a concept. Years had passed where he'd been rather blunt with her, or how John would say 'a complete dick', which he did say every time they'd exited St Bart's. Truthfully he was frightened…frightened that perhaps the reason she didn't think he entertained the idea was because she didn't do so anymore herself.

Checking her pulse hurriedly when he'd caught her hand earlier didn't tell him if she really did have feelings, it was chemistry, just bodily reactions to situations. None of it really said anything. Long ago he'd taken a fall, and now he was certainly taking a leap. Not of faith, but something of the similar variety,  _hope_ , the same she'd done years ago, "No, the case isn't about Tom," he said, taking a quick swallow from his glass of wine, before he quickly put it down again, looking at her still uncertain face.

"Then tell me – I can help, or at least I can try," she said with a small smile.

Like this was any other day, like any other visit to the lab.

"I know you can, Molly, but I didn't travel to Rome for a case."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Okay…then why would you-," and without thinking for once, clearing his mind of all potential problems, from the fear he had - he kissed her.


	7. Sette

His gaze is cast down as he licks his lips, and there's a minor puzzled expression on his face, but her lips are downright tingling amidst the faint spicy aromas of the restaurant. Clearing his throat, his brows are furrowed as he finally looked up again. The look in his blue-green eyes, she knows it, it's searing, and it's certainly familiar. It's one she knows by heart, one she's not used to being on the receiving end of -  _nervous_. For once he doesn't seem to know what to do, how to proceed, and she's certainly at a loss. Molly debates with herself for a few seconds that maybe there's a reason for whatever just happened, but letting her eyes roam about the room doesn't aid her in any way, quite the opposite, because her cheeks only grow warmer. This wasn't one of her daydreams after a long night in the lab, hunched over her samples, hoping he'd whisk her off on an adventure.

But there they are…in Rome of all places.

And he'd just kissed her.

"Oh," she said blinking stupidly, dissolving the stubborn silence that only made her cheeks glow even more indecently red, " _Oh."_  Her instincts still kick in –  _don't believe him!_  –  _it's a case!_  – Except they are banished at the reminder of the way his eyes softened, his hand gently slipping on top of hers - even he couldn't act that well – "But – but-," she tried to make an excuse for him; there had to be a case, had to be something he was keeping from her, perhaps he was using her as a cover right now.

"I travelled to Rome because of  _you_ , Molly Hooper," he said softly, the corners of his mouth inching upwards, hope practically shining out of his eyes, as she gaped at him.

She stares at him doubtfully, despite her tingling mouth, which makes a pleasant twist in the pit of her stomach, as if someone's dancing against her insides. She doesn't know what to say, and the outburst of " _Really_?" her nose crinkling up was probably not the right one, though he only gave a low chuckle in response, seeming to become less stiff, less deerstalker in headlights, "There really isn't a case?"

"No," he said.

"It's just  _me_?"

Briefly she wondered if he was there out of sympathy, having read her email, having seen how very tragic she was, but he was smiling at her, "Yes, is that so hard to believe?" he said slowly, retaining some of his usual swagger.

Again she doesn't know what to say – 'yes' certainly comes to mind first, but their dinner arrived, relieving her of the duty to say anything. They thank the waiter, and Sherlock seems to be waiting for her to speak, but she begins to stuff her mouth quickly, like eating will help her think faster. Unlike her, he barely touches his plate, his fork gradually stabbing at the pasta, while she hesitantly tries to rectify her mistake. "You haven't exactly been obvious." If she overlooked him scampering off to Italy to be her date for a wedding for no other reason than to be there for her.

Sherlock who hated social events - who couldn't tolerate simple friendly dinners, had dared to do so, in his own way of course. Few men could lie so easily, thinking they'd benefit from it, but obviously he did, "I mean –  _before_  – Rome," she said, taking a quick nip of her wine, though it turned into a large swallow, or maybe two.

He looked thoughtful as he slipped his fork onto the table, giving up his meal in its entirety, "I didn't know how to-,"

"Asking me out for a coffee…would be nice, you know? Simpler even – cheaper too," she said, recollecting her own failed attempt.

Sherlock frowned, "I did - except you seemed to think I wanted you to make  _me_  coffee, and you also told me to 'piss off' at the time."

She grinned, her shoulders less up under her ears, "That's your fault," she said with a laugh.

"My fault? How?" he said with raised brows, oblivious as always.

Molly looked at him sheepishly, comforted when he seemed to thankfully figure it out on his own without her having to put the words into his mouth – "Ah. Yes.  _That_ ,"he said with a nod, "Not very good, no."

"Did you know I was asking you out?" she asked, leaning her elbow on the table, while she drank more of her wine, easing down her eating, as she really didn't know if she could stomach anything having this conversation. Here she was dragging her old laundry out, all of those unspoken moments, but she needed to know.

"Somewhat."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I understood, but I thought it unwise considering our working-relationship," he said taking a sip of his own glass, his eyes elsewhere.

"And now it's a good idea?"

The glass was still in his hand, as he murmured with his eyes now fixed on her, "Because if I don't try being with you. I will most likely regret it for…the rest of my life."

She draws for breath, suddenly having trouble swallowing, despite there being no drink or food in her mouth, instantly she is fidgeting in her seat, her foot jiggling underneath the table, "Oh…that's  _nice_." More than nice actually, and she's struck then with how much he really has changed, yet not at all. Her appetite disappears entirely, and she continues to nurse on her glass of wine for support, "Aren't you…hungry?"

He shook his head briefly, while she laughed, "I was - except now I'm-," she started, the words failing her, as she released a breath, " – not hungry…"

"We could go for a walk – people go on  _walks_ , don't they?" he said, a crinkle appearing between his brows, causing her to giggle.

She bit her lip, "You mentioned some place, didn't you?"

* * *

The birds chirped above in the trees, the scent of lavender hanging around them, while they wandered in unknown terrain, threading outside the familiar trodden path straight into the green, careful not to disturb smaller shrubs. She's almost irritated with how mind-bogglingly perfect it is, especially with the sun fading away, the sky filling with orange hues - just underlining the majesty of a simple 'walk'.

"You know I might not fancy you in return," she said with a cheerful tone, drawing his dress jacket over her shoulders, as he'd offered it to her the instant he noticed she'd trembled slightly due to the slight chill in the air.

His hands are in his pockets, "You didn't slap me when I kissed you - so I dare say I have a fair chance."

Frowning at him she said, "I've not always liked you, you know, especially when you're being-,"

"An idiot, I know – you of all people are allowed to abuse me, Molly. I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"It would be easier if you didn't  _let_ me be cross at you-," she said with a laugh, almost tumbling forward, as her shoes weren't made for this kind of terrain, though he soon caught her hand, making her look at him – "We're holding hands again…" she said in a small voice, when he doesn't release her hand.

"Obviously."

"Okay," she said clearing her throat, beginning to walk again, "Why do you fancy me, then?"

It's only when she feels the pull at her hand that she notices that he's stopped moving, "Isn't it obvious?" he said, he looked utterly lost.

"No, no it's not. I've been going over it in my head, and I just-,"

He sighed, soon smiling, "Molly, when I came back to London – it took me longer than usual to know you were engaged. Not because I didn't see it, because I had - but because I didn't want to."

She blinked, "You didn't want to?"

"No, I didn't understand at that time, but that day we had… I was trying to say goodbye, except I couldn't-,"

"Which is why you showed up at the lab with that terrible excuse-," she said with dawning realization, looking down at their connected hands, feeling the warmth of his large hand on hers.

"I trusted you to make the correct calculations, of course-,"

"You still got pissed and vomited on someone's carpet."

"Don't remind me…but – of course – the wedding – we didn't speak-,"

"You left before I could-," she said, soon pressing her lips together, remembering how she'd stared after him when he'd left.

"And you didn't follow me."

She looked at the trees, not daring to look at him, to see whatever emotion his eyes are showing, as they begun to walk again, "I couldn't follow you – I'd been following you for years."

"And that's the night I really understood you had. I pretended I didn't care of course, spending an age battling with myself that I didn't, but when I saw your disappointment in the lab... You were the last person I ever wanted to disappoint."

"Sorry about the slapping," she said, hoping to change the tone, since she hadn't felt at her best that very moment, despite the apparent admiration in his eyes.

"Your reaction was the one I needed more than anything - to set it all right…"

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" she said, the question out there, before she can manage to catch it.

"Because I didn't want you to know…" they'd stopped again, he brushed stray hairs away from her face, gently caressing her cheek, while she stared up at him in wonder, "Because of all people. I didn't want you to think I was going to die - after all you'd done to save me..."

 _He really is an idiot_ , she thought frowning, before she took hold of his shirt collar, and let her lips softly brush his with the briefest of kisses, feeling his hands slip around her waist, "I still think you're an idiot," she said pulling away, darting out of his grip and walking ahead of him.

"If that's the response stupidity gets - I promise to be more vapid in the future."

* * *

They stepped into the lift, both of them looking rather windswept, standing with some distance between each other, before they slowly inched closer as they head up to their floor, their shoulders touching in the end. She nudges his shoulder briefly, and suddenly the doors to the lift burst open; with her running ahead of him laughing, except when he sees her standing outside of their door, her eyes brimming over with pleasure, he knows she knows he's got the key-card.

He walked slowly over to her, a small smirk on his face, as he put the card into the slot, pressing against her all the while. Her body flushed against him - the door clicks open, as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her mouth in, with no hesitance in either of them.

 _Relief_ , that's all he feels, the blood flowing through his veins with such rapidity that he can scarcely breathe, and the door swings open, both of them still attached to each other by the lips.

But…something's  _wrong_.

He sees it briefly out of the corner of his previously closed eye - someone has been in the room. A flower vase has been toppled onto the floor soaking the carpet, the colourful array of flowers wilting away, and as he reluctantly draws himself away from a very breathless Molly - he sees - a dead man on their bed.

" _Of course_ ," he said with a frown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you've planned something for so long, and you just didn't know how to write it - and now you're dreading everyone's reaction, despite yourself. Yes, it's a fluffy case-fic with a very not-fluffy case. Well, depending on how you look at it of course. Cheerio!


	8. Otto

He'd stopped kissing her,  _oh no,_ yet he wasn't stepping away, his hold on her a bit more tighter than usual, but his hands are not travelling any further south when they'd been briefly skimming her backside through the dress not long ago. There's a tightness in his jaw when he walked away from her, frustration evident in his face and she's about to ask why when she whirled around, her eyes landing on the same thing his own had fallen upon.

"Of course," he said.

And she's rather caught off guard by the dead man on the bed, as one would be if ones otherwise pristine sheets were now sullied. Definitively not something one could shag on top of (without loads of disinfectant).

Frankly she should be more shocked, but she stands there barely registering Sherlock closing the door to the room, feeling actually  _annoyed._  A dead body has foiled them and it's probably the only thing that could actually stop her from going through with anything really (Tom barging in wouldn't have even made her blink).

Blinking slightly confused she lets out a soft ' _oh_ '.

Sherlock walks about the room, his pace hurried, as he takes in the room with his sharp blue eyes. There's not a spot of blood in the room, all of the surfaces are intact and untarnished, but there's the corpse of course.

She tries to gauge his reaction, except she sees only the same exasperation flaring up within her (besides the typical glimmer of excitement in his eyes, like she's presented him this corpse herself).

How – why –  _how?_

"This isn't the point you tell me…there's a case, is there?" she said carefully, feeling rather foolish when she gestures towards the body.

Apparently this was what they got for wandering about in a daze – they missed a murder. There is thankfully not a trace of guilt in his face, no twinges of artifice to be found in the way his brows knitted together.

"No, I did not order the dead man Molly," he said with a huff, his hands on his waist.

Seconds ago they'd been snogging the breath out of each other and now he was eyeing a corpse with interest (almost like the old days). It wasn't exactly how she thought the rest of the evening would pan out entirely, very much the opposite really, as she'd imagined something more animated. But at least he looked less interested in the body than he'd been in claiming her lips (at that she was grateful).

"Does this happen to you a lot?"

"Occasionally," he said looking a bit amused.

Molly bit her lip uncertain how to proceed, though she knew  _how_  to certainly. Somehow it felt absolutely ordinary really, as if the morgue had just changed its appearance for the evening and she was about to inform Sherlock about the minor details. Mainly she wondered  _how_  this had happened;  _why_ this had happened and why-oh-why had it needed to happen just when they were about to –  _well_  – she couldn't be entirely sure Sherlock had wanted to after all (though the hardness that had pressed up against her, presented the intention rather clearly).

Shaking her head she resolved on doing what she knew to do best, as her field of expertise was dead people and not so much about the  _whodunit_  anyway. Moving closer to the bed she frowned taking in the sight of the overweight bald man, clearly middle aged and a great drinker (well if his large stomach told her anything) – though Sherlock probably had his  _origin_  down already.

"His name is Samuel Black," he said, making her look up at him in surprise.

"You found his ID, then?"

"No," said Sherlock with a deep frown. "I've witnessed against him before – and he's not a very nice man."

"He wouldn't be dead if he was," she said with a sigh, earning a small smile from Sherlock who was apparently trying not to chuckle at her poor joke, before his mobile phone was pressed against his ear.

She set her eyes again on the 'victim', taking in the sight of the impressive grey suit before she saw the slight splatter of dried blood on the pillows where his head rested.

"Head trauma," she mumbled gazing at sour man's expression mirroring her own.

Molly took note of the man's jewellery. Almost every thick finger was decked with some gaudy gold ring. "Though-," she glanced at Sherlock wondering if he was even listening, but he gave a brief nod of recognition at her words. "- I haven't got gloves," she said wanting to lift the man's head.

Not that she'd packed her gloves either –  _who packs their gloves_? She didn't expect to be touching dead people at any point during her holiday – "There's some gloves in my suitcase," said Sherlock clearly reading her mind, while he wavered slightly, throwing out a few words in Italian, before he pursed his lips waiting for whomever he wanted to speak with.

Obviously there were some people who did pack such thing.

Grinning slightly despite the situation, she wasted no time to get hold of his hand-carry, soon zipping it open almost gasping at the sight of the poorly concealed packet of condoms.

"That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" she said in a low voice, giggling slightly.

She really shouldn't be laughing.

There was a dead man on their bed, but then again, it wasn't surprising if she was feeling a tad bit hysterical really. It wasn't really ordinary for her to be on the scene of the crime before police or others littered all over it, some of them damaging evidence.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," she said innocently as she found the gloves, quickly snapping them on.

He'd brought a whole packet of course.

The same type she'd recommended he use as well and she couldn't do anything but smile ('gloves' – not the condoms – she didn't have a favourite brand exactly. Not that she hadn't noticed the ' _extra thin, extra pleasure'_ -line on the packet - her cheeks turning vaguely crimson, only he'd be that practical and confident).

"I have a  _friend_  with the police here. He might be helpful - though…of course last time he did try to shoot me," he said in explanation of the phone at his ear.

Molly raised her eyebrows at that. "I'm surprised Greg hasn't tried that yet," she said thoughtfully, slightly amused that Sherlock would call a man who tried to shoot him as a friend (though considering Mary…).

"No, not quite yet - though he is itching for the trigger," said Sherlock smirking.

She almost faltered at his remembering Greg's name. "Wait you-,"

"I do  _know_  his name – I've just never liked the way he-," but he began speaking in rapid Italian while she was left to have a proper look over the body, or well, the best she could under the circumstances.

She hardly had all her equipment present, and the fluorescent soft light from the chandelier wasn't giving her much to go on.

Pursing her lips she lifted the head slowly, careful not do anything that would damage any evidence if there was any. Upon lifting it she saw a caved in area on the back of his head, obviously from something sharp,  _but_ … Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard shouting and the door to the hotel room suddenly banged open.

Turning around she saw the police storming in, though by the way their guns were pointed at them - it was clearly not to assist.

* * *

"So your friend doesn't like you much, then?" she said finally breaking the silence, trying to be relaxed despite her hands being cuffed behind her back. They were in a police car, the sirens loud and the sergeants silent, except from the occasional hum of their radio. She really did not know if the evening could become any more worse really, since she'd been overwhelmed when Sherlock had consented to their arrest by saying –  _"Well, we do need the lift."_

"I  _did_  break up his marriage."

"Sorry?" she said shocked.

"I may have deduced that his wife was cheating on him, though he was already cheating on her. I don't see why he's still upset about that – anyway – he shouldn't have invited me over for dinner." Molly laughed and he stared in return. "You're surprisingly not angry. Why aren't you angry?"

She shrugged. "I don't know…I think John's stories really made this seem rather normal to be honest, though I do hope it's not the only time I see you handcuffed," she said biting her lip, trying to still her wide smile, as he tilted his head in shock.

"I've stolen quite a few from Lestrade, so no worries  _there_ -," he said with a tantalizingly slowly raised brow causing her to blush.

"So…what did you mean by that you didn't like what Greg did?" she said diverting the conversation elsewhere, knowing that in some ways the policemen probably knew what they were saying, and probably didn't find that sort of conversation 'normal'.

"We've just been arrested Molly, I think there are more important things to worry about…than me not liking Lestrade just because he slobbers."

" _Slobbers?"_

He turned his head toward her sharply. "Don't you see the man salivating over you? Making passes? Always when you're occupied of course - or  _he_  is."

"You're jealous?" she guffawed, "You're jealous of Greg?"

He grimaced. "No."

She laughed. "Right."

"Molly."

"What?"

He looked rather anxious all of a sudden, his eyes fixed on her rather seriously. "I will get us out of this… you know," he said in a low voice.

"I know…I'm not worried. I'm with you after all."

He smiled softly at that before shouting out more Italian - though the sergeants plainly ignored his outcries until the car made a sudden stop, and they jolted slightly forward in their seats.

* * *

"Miss Hooper-,"

"Doctor Hooper," corrected Sherlock while Molly eyed him nervously.

She'd never been in for questioning before, though she did know that you weren't supposed to speak up against the police, especially the more sharply dressed detective inspector who looked oddly like Greg, or well, in the way that he was also grey-haired and rather tan.

"Of course, my mistake –  _Doctor_  Hooper are you aware that several claim that you and your boyfriend were spotted going into your hotel room?" he said with a heavy accent.

"Rather strange that we went into our own hotel room, is it?" scoffed Sherlock. "Next question Lucas, this is rather poor for your standards."

The man rubbed at his eyes with a tired expression. "Could you please make your boyfriend shut up-,"

"Umm, he's not - he's not my boyfriend-,"

Sherlock's head whipped towards her. "I'm not your boyfriend?"

Turning toward him she said. "You are?"

"I think the evidence suggests that I am, Molly."

She stared at him utterly bewildered, suddenly smiling and he returned it as well to her shock, but she was soon reminded by her current situation as Lucas cleared his throat soundly.

"You never do shut up, Mr Holmes," said Lucas with a groan. "Can you please keep quiet, I am trying to do my job! Or I  _will_ separate the pair of you  _despite_  your advice."

"Obviously you do need my advice since you're doing a poor job already. Your forensic report will come in soon and I think that Molly can finish this sentence for me-,"

She stared at Sherlock rather amazed he was letting her tell the man the blatant hole in their arrest, the thing she'd understood while she'd been checking the body, but he only gave a brief encouraging nod for her to speak. "The man wasn't murdered… he died of a heart attack – the wound at the back of his head was  _after_  he'd died-," she said carefully, but still confidently. She was too used seeing that sort of thing pop up in the morgue really, and she'd almost felt stupid for not noticing it immediately.

Lucas raised his brows. "What? But how did he-,"

"Accidental. Someone moved the body, but they managed to smash Black's head on the way," said Sherlock.

"Why would they do that when Black died of a heart attack?"

"Because they wanted us to be  _here_ ," said Sherlock with gritted teeth, "Now – will you let us go?"

* * *

"It would have taken more than one person to carry that body," said Sherlock thoughtfully as they exited the taxi, and he handed the driver some cash while she walked after him.

It was quieter outside now, but the streets were still rather busy with traffic. She eyed the new hotel they were going to with some annoyance, as she had none of her luggage with her exactly. All of that had been confiscated after all and she could hardly claim it, despite their obvious innocence (especially since they couldn't even have been there during the 'crime').

"Why can't we go back to the hotel?" she asked him, as he still hadn't explained why he'd given another address to the driver.

"We have to give the impression that we're still being detained, as Lucas thankfully won't be going out to the press with this any time soon. He knows very well who Black is and if we're lucky we might get his colleagues here as well if they're stupid enough to go after the supposed murderer."

"Do you think it's someone we know?"

"Given the fact that your room key is being used as evidence –  _yes_."

She'd been surprised when she'd been shown that bit of evidence, which had been tucked into the inner pocket of Black's dress jacket. Molly hadn't even noticed it had gone missing, though Sherlock was convinced it had gone missing during their lunch with the others.

"They must have been in a panic though… they probably didn't even know it was my key?"

From what she'd understood Samuel Black used to live in London, though he'd gotten himself a new life - a new name in Italy and lived the same vile existence that he'd done there, though less in the public eye. He'd gotten away because he'd struck certain deals to Sherlock's frustration, but he was clearly pleased at the man's end.

"Most likely. Whoever it was must have had some connection to Black as to not want to be caught red-handed, which gives us little to go on really."

"It does?"

"None of the wedding party seems to have such connections given from what I've understood. Most of them haven't been in Rome before, except…"

"Tom?" said Molly in a whisper, gaping slightly.

"No, not Tom – _Polly_ ," said Sherlock stopping in his stride, as they entered the hotel.

Molly stopped in her step as well and was stunned when she caught sight of Polly standing by the information desk looking teary-eyed.


	9. Nove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patience you have it, congratz. Thanks to all who comment/kudos and bookmark! I love that this absolutely silly piece has gotten any attention at all really, thank you for that!

She was leaning against the counter speaking in rapid Italian when Molly approached her, wondering why she wasn't at the original hotel, and what had gone wrong with Tom.  _Was the wedding off? Had something gone wrong?_  Different reasons twisted through her head until one came hurtling forward and she looked at Sherlock nervously, wondering if she was completely off.

He took hold of her elbow, bringing her forward until they stood besides her.

"Polly?" she said.

The woman turned her head in response, wiping at her eyes trying to remove the blackened smudges of mascara, but she only rubbed them in more. However, there was no look of recognition in her face, blinking furiously at the pair of them, until she said clearly baffled – "Umm, sorry who are you?"

"You must be her sister," said Sherlock with a sigh.

* * *

_Biologist in her early thirties, poor upbringing but recently moneyed_  had equalled 'not important'. Obviously as always he'd missed something, one obvious little thing, which was evident in Polly's strained manner like she was nervous to be in Rome. All of her smiles were too tight, but he'd presumed 'wedding', 'guests' and 'Tom' (clever women seemed to be attracted to the man for some unfathomable reason, though Molly's reasons had been obvious to him). There it hit him at the sight of  _her_ , the one little detail that he'd managed to overlook, seeing no point at looking at it too closely – her having a sister, or more importantly – a  _twin._

A cigarette is in her hand, dangling between her fingertips unlit, as the 'no smoking'-sign in the room only makes her sigh (he does need one himself). Holly's likenight (Molly's words, not his) compared to  _Polly_  ("Their parents were certainly creative."), her smile is not so bright or white, her hair is a dark curly tangle and her clothes are all dark and baggy, hiding her scrawny shape.

He knows an addict when he sees one or at least one who's trying to cope, trying to ignore the itch from within, avoiding the tiny deaths one can have daily. And he feels his hand tremble slightly, but he clenches it into a tight ball reminding himself the reason to why he's coping – staring at the back of Molly's head before she sits down besides Holly on the sofa, eyeing him briefly still bemused.

Molly had gaped at him when he'd explained, the confusion evident in her face.

" _But she looks exactly like her."_

" _She has scars," said Sherlock in a low voice._

" _What kind of-" –_

" _Not easily recognizable if you haven't got them yourself."_

_She'd gripped his arm, her hold tight, and her smile sad._

"I knew this would happen," said Holly with a shrug, returning her lone cigarette into its soft-packet (Marlboro Gold, UK, tax-free), throwing it into her purse, which is littered with items and various chocolate wrappers (post-cravings).

This isn't really his area, and he does want to ask so he won't be reminded of the dark patches of his youth, and briefly his adulthood, but he lets Molly handle it. She is much better at this than him, her brown gaze soft, and her face already empathic.

It's an emotion he can  _fake_  to strangers, and right now he is perhaps feeling more than he should, pushing it aside for the want of fixing things the only way he knows how. He sees the patterns clearly –  _addiction – disappointment – the dark horse of the family_  – and he bites the inside of his mouth to not recall his brother giving up on him.

"What happened?" said Molly forcing him to blink, forcing him to remember –  _drugs – debt – death…_

Holly took a deep breath. "I should probably start at the beginning-,"

"No need," he said unable to help himself, his nostrils flaring slightly, as Molly looks up at him, instantly silencing him with one brief look of emotion –  _Sherlock-don't_ – it aggravates him that she can do that so easily.

"Don't mind him-," said Molly encouragingly, "I'm not as quick as he is – he's-,"

"Sherlock Holmes,  _I know_ ," said Holly looking up at him, her eyes brightening up to his immense surprise. And he becomes aware that she probably 'sees' it as well, but she doesn't say. "Umm, right," she began again. "I'm not my sister… we might look alike, but she's always been the a-levels', top of her class - sort of person, while I was always the odd one really – I fell in with a rough crowd."

He can feel Molly's eyes on him, but he quickly turns away, eyeing the interior of their room intently, as if he hasn't captured every single detail already.

"We didn't speak for years – except – the few times I asked for help and she gave it to me, but less – after I'd-,"

"Stolen?" he quipped, though not with an ounce of humour.

Molly didn't feel like correcting him this time, her eyes back on Holly while he paced around the room feeling restless. There was no need to look at her to know she was nodding. "Things got worse after that, which is when I met Black – he helped me out of his own good heart he said, but I knew he was no good. And then I was up to my neck in debt and I ran for it."

"Leaving your sister to deal with it," said Sherlock in small voice, his eyes cast down on the carpet, unable to keep the furrow in his brows away.

"Yeah, but it wasn't enough of course – he thought she was me – and I'd witnessed against him years back - and -,"

"You came here to warn your sister that he was in Rome," said Sherlock.

"She wouldn't listen," said Holly weakly. "She didn't trust me anymore, didn't even want to see me and I – showed up at her hotel – but she wasn't in ("The tour," said Molly with a soft voice) when I came to see her – so I waited-,"

"And Black showed up," said Sherlock grimly.

"He didn't see me, but that's when she returned. And the pair of them went off to her room when she'd excused herself from her fiancé."

"And you followed," said Sherlock.

"He was going to kill her," said Holly who was shaking her head furiously, as Molly put her arm around her shoulder. "He had his hands around her neck – and I – I tried pulling him off, but he was too strong-," her hands are in front of her, grasping for thin air, like the vague memory of the assault is still clear in her mind.

"And then faith intervened –  _or_  - well - his weak heart finally caved in," said Sherlock smirking. The fact that Holly began to cry did make his smirk falter slightly, especially when Molly threw him another look.

He mouthed ' _Not good?'_  and she raised an eyebrow in reply.

* * *

"I suppose it was Polly who suggested hiding him?" said Sherlock when Holly had finally calmed down, though she still fidgeted.

"Yeah, she'd found someone's keys – didn't want to fuck up her wedding – I suppose-,"

"Or maybe she knew you'd get into more trouble if they knew you were involved – didn't you say he was part of a crime syndicate, Sherlock?" said Molly trying to not let Holly stray too deeply into dark thoughts.

He gave a brief nod in return.

"They do know – I almost ran for it really, but I couldn't – she'll – she'll be in trouble. They'll know, they always know," said Holly. "I only went to this hotel because she told me to go back to London, but I couldn't leave her like that - I couldn't."

"We'll catch them Holly," said Sherlock, his expression rather dark.

"How?" said Holly. "I witnessed against him and he still got off. Whoever he works with, they're – they're a bad lot Mr Holmes."

"I have friends in high places," he said smiling, bringing up his phone scrunching up his nose slightly, "Or well a  _brother_ ".

After a while they leave Holly to rest, dawn almost breaking upon them and Molly feels rather unnerved by their  _plan_  even if they're being assisted by the police and whoever Mycroft has control over (their hotel is currently being watched just in case).

The image she'd made up in her head about Polly had changed quite drastically. No wonder she'd been less than pleasant really. She was clearly at the end of her rope, even if Molly herself would have handled things differently. She knows how difficult it can be, how much of a struggle it is to see someone one loves cave into an addiction, and in the end it becomes clear to her that Polly wanted to handle it on her own, not wishing her sister to be drawn into that kind of world again.

Perhaps with different consequences than Tom's fiancé supposed, however. She wonders briefly how much Tom does know about anything really, but considering his rather carefree attitude, maybe not.

"I can hear you think," he said drawing her out of her thoughts, his hands on the upper part of shirt still fumbling with the buttons.

Molly was already in the bed, and honestly her mind is elsewhere –  _well_  - it was difficult to be in a wholly dark mood when he became so lively, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement when he told them what they'd have to do. It was difficult to ignore even at the worst of moments that Sherlock was  _hot_ , especially when he was wrapped up in a case like he was now.

He had such control of the moment, his intelligence burning clearly in his eyes making her feel rather flushed, despite the logical part of her brain saying ' _down girl'_. "What's wrong?" she said rather unnerved that he'd been spending so much time on just his buttons.

She was after all underneath the covers already in her underwear, too tired to be at all nervous about him seeing her like that, though the sheets were perhaps pulled rather too high despite herself.

"Nothing," he said in a voice that conveyed something was.

"Sherlock?"

He turned around with a raised brow. "Yes?"

Only a few buttons had been undone on his shirt.

"Do you need any help?"

"Molly – I do know how to-," suddenly his mouth opened briefly in surprise, before quickly closing again – "Oh."

She grinned slightly, her cheeks heating up, as he seemed to be contemplating something briefly, his eyes flittering over the bed, over her.

Sitting up she let's the sheet drop.

"Come here," she said patting the spot besides her.

Molly's never really been the one to initiate something before, and she's always imagined he'd be the one, but she knows what the fumbling means.

Slowly he walked towards the bed, his face unreadable, as she raises a hand and he entangles his with hers. "Lay down with me," she said.

She can hear the sound of him slipping off his shoes, before he climbs into the bed, the weight of him making the bed creak soundly. He is sitting while she moves closer to him, resting on top of his chest soon feeling his arms wrap her closer to him until her fingers are toying with his shirt buttons.

"We don't have to _do_  anything-,"

His grip on her suddenly becomes tighter, his nails digging into her skin where his hands are resting. And she looked up at his face, the same frustrated look on his face again, the same when he'd found the dead body – "We  _can't_  do anything," he said releasing a breath.

"What?" she said wide eyed.

"My brother is watching," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards in amusement. "Or do you  _like_ -,"

"No," she yelped, pulling at the sheet with all her strength as he scowled at her.

"Apparently not," he said with an easy laugh.

"Why didn't you say anything? I took of my clothes!"

"I was enjoying the view," he said leaning down to give her lips a quick kiss. "You can't begrudge a man a look, and I don't think the CIA are complaining exactly."

She was torn between wanting to slap him and kiss him, she choose the latter marvelling over the softness of his lips. One kiss became another, and another, deeper, softer, longer until she was on top of him, the sheet hiding her from view.

He threw the sheet over them both and she laughed.

"We can't-," she said slightly out of breath straddling his hips, but he only kissed the corner of her mouth in reply, grabbing her more intently towards him, his hands loosening her bra allowing her breasts to spring free.

"Mm," he said as if in agreement, his palms making her nipples pebble at the briefest of warm touches.

She was about to give another protest, but his mouth finds one of them, sucking and licking it into his mouth making her protest turn into a moan, while his fingers brush against her knickers, finding that taut bundle of nerves.

Molly pushed down against his prominent bulge causing him to groan loudly against her, she relishes the lost look on his face, but he suddenly turns them around, until he's on top and the sheet is off the bed.

"But-," she began when he'd pushed aside the fabric of her knickers, and his fingers slid into her warmth, making her push against his fingers in want. His mouth finds hers, his teeth biting slightly into her lower lip making her open her mouth to his fully until she gives in, wrapping her arms around the man.

* * *

The phone in the room rang.

"Ignore it," he breathed against her skin, sucking at the skin on her inner thigh, his fingers still smoothly slipping in and out of her heat, while she just moaned.

The phone rang again.

"Sherlock-," she said in a raspy voice. "What if-,"

Reluctantly he pulled himself away, as Molly wrapped the sheet around her with great focus, and he narrowed his eyes in return trying to drag the sheet off her, pressing the phone against his ear with his other hand.

"Yes, Mycroft?" he smirked, making Molly throw him a glare.

"Hello Sherlock," said an unfamiliar voice and his smile faltered.

"Who's this?" he said releasing the sheet.

Molly's laughing face faltered at his expression.

"Ah, but that would be boring, wouldn't it? Telling you. Nah, let's make it a bit more interesting. I know Mr Black died because of his big  _heart_ , but let's play a game like an old friend of mine, shall we? Don't you like games Mr Holmes? I think you do, especially parties. Fun they are - see you soon."

He put the phone slowly in the receiver. "Change of plans," he said.


	10. Dieci

Bright sun reflected on the various sleek cars that drove in the crammed roads. Molly squinted at the glare of light that crossed her eyes; half-glad for the actual warmth of the sunshine, instead of the air-conditioned air inside the café they'd been in, having a somewhat disappointing breakfast (buffet and all). Holly was still eyeing her, clearly wondering whether or not she would breach the topic to the curly haired man whose blue eyes were intent on his camera phone.

Sometimes it was easy to forget how inconveniently thick Sherlock could be at times, especially about something this universal. It wasn't like her and Holly hadn't laughed, the latter had snorted, while she'd tried very hard not to giggle too loudly. Crossing her arms as they stood by the gushing fountain with some ghastly cherubic angels in gold surrounding it, she tried to find a way she could make it  _obvious_  that what he'd just said wasn't really possible, though she would love to see him try (so would several, and she knew they'd all film it without an ounce of guilt).

"Umm,  _you_  want to go to the hen-party?" she said carefully staring up at the man who was half-distracted by the newly lit cigarette smoke wafting over from Holly.

Sherlock inhaled sharply to her mild surprise, and then proceeded to blink furiously - his eyes turned to hers briefly with an unfocused - "Yes," said with a crease between his brows, as if she was being peculiar.

Another social thing he hadn't caught on, clearly. He hadn't even used the word 'hen' - - - " _poultry_ " (she already knew this was a story she'd retell).

Sherlock and weddings was a peculiar thing after all.

"Did you go to Mary's?" she said with pursed lips, not putting at against Mrs Watson to let Sherlock go.

"Mary's? No. I was busy with John's stag do. You know that."

Maybe she shouldn't argue, but he had been adamant at them trying to be discreet. They were already rather non-discreet with her being the ex-fiancé of the future groom and Holly being the twin sister with a dreadful backstory. Polly, the bride-to-be wouldn't jump for joy at their appearance, especially with Sherlock thrown into the mix, trying to casually infiltrate a group of women all probably drinking pink frothy frozen drinks. It wasn't as if he just had a sudden urge to go, or that either her or Holly longed to attend, but after the suspicious phone call the night before, all previous plans had been thrown out of the window.

Originally the other twin wasn't even supposed to be involved, but clearly, whoever had called, knew whom  _they_  were, meaning that it was best to go with the most obvious, especially when the person had mentioned the  _party_  to begin with.

So.

Hen night it was.

"Should I tell him?" said Holly after a minute, a rueful smile on her lips, which was probably helped when she'd requested a shot of whiskey pre-breakfast. The woman's nerves were a wreck, whether or not it was the threat or her sister, Molly wasn't entirely sure.

Both were potentially not good.

She didn't expect another Jim, but she did wonder why Sherlock seemed more on the edge than usual, despite what she felt was a rather empty threat, then again, the man was trying to join a hen night (she had a vague feeling he was trying to pre-emptively save her to her annoyance). When he'd told them over breakfast that they'd have to attend Polly's pre-wedding celebrations, both her and Holly had been unenthusiastic, especially Molly who had made staunch arguments against it, as she wanted to go with him, wherever he was going - that was until the bomb was dropped - "I'm also coming to this  _poultry activity_."

Holly appropriately took her shot of whiskey then.

"No, it's alright-," she said to Holly who gave a small nod, and stood off to the side while Molly directed her attention to the oblivious man before her. "You can't go to Polly's hen party-,"

"Why not?" he said with his brows knitted.

The thought of explaining an entire social situation to him made her feel rather tired, so, she opted for the laziest course. "Call Mycroft"

Sherlock proceeded to blink at her, before he gingerly brought out his camera phone, and walked away with it pressed against his ear. She gaped after him a little bit, wondering slightly why he hadn't protested firmly. "That was quick," said Holly who appeared at her side with a laugh, another fresh cigarette in her hand. "... What did you say?"

Molly didn't know if it was so much what she said, or even how she said it, but rather the circumstance in itself. They'd had another lost opportunity the night before - - one rather distressing phone call to cock it up - - where he'd swanned off to think, and she'd sat up most of the night gnawing her lower lip swollen. When Sherlock had finally returned it hadn't felt like the right time, despite what he promptly said at the sight of her - " _Don't. Tempt. Me_." Apparently he had a severe problem with her biting her lip, and throughout the whole breakfast she caught herself subconsciously doing it, while his eyes were fixed on a photograph of the Pope on the wall.

"Alright, then, don't tell me," sighed Holly, while she suddenly remembered herself.

"Oh sorry - I just - I've got a lot on my mind," she said.

"I suppose the lot after me and my sister - aren't just Mr Black's regular mates, are they?"

"Sherlock thinks it might be a friend of someone who's finally dead..." she winced at her own words. It sounded less stupid in her head, but then again the original sentence of 'I sort of dated a psychopath bomber who faked his own death because he guessed the man I was in love with would also fake his death, so, they sort of out-faked each other' hardly sounded clever, even if it was true.

"...Finally dead? - - Oh? Is it that Moriarty bloke?" said Holly in slight awe nodding while she stared at Sherlock's back head. "He didn't end up well though."

"No, no he didn't," said Molly quietly recalling the master criminal on her slab.

Holly clearly caught on, and said waving her cigarette about - "Do we really have to go to the hen party? Polly's not exactly going to let me show up without a fuss."

Molly could imagine everyone's strained smiles around the table, as she could hardly see Tom's fiancé trying to point out the problematic nature of the evening, even if it were staring her in the face. "We don't know what they're planning, but they did mention a party on the phone. It's got to be this one - Sherlock and his brother will be taking every precaution, so, we'll be heavily watched-," said Molly all-too-knowingly.

"I wish I'd never come here," said Holly who threw her cigarette away with a frown.

Molly looked at the woman and quickly said. "You couldn't have known, anyway - if you hadn't been here for your sister - she might not be alive right now."

"... Thanks for reminding me, but it's still my fault, you know," said Holly with a shaky laugh. "Which I'm sure Polly agrees with, at least there's that."

"I'm sure you'll sort it out," said Molly who watched with mild amusement when Sherlock reappeared with a clearly ruffled expression on his face. "What did he say?" she said, trying to look like she didn't already know, half-hearing the drawling smug voice of Mycroft in the back of her head.

"I'll be handling the stag," said Sherlock ignoring her question, which only caused her to grin to his blatant discomfort. "Someone needs to keep an eye on  _Tom_."

It's when the words registered with her that Molly realized  _she_  was the one feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"Oh, right," said Holly with a nod.

"My ex-fiancé?" she piped up to which Sherlock briefly glanced at her.

"Yes, who else?" he said.

"No wonder you don't want to go," said Holly who gaped slightly.

"Go get the rest of your things, Holly," said Sherlock with his hands in his pockets, jerking his head to the hotel. "We'll ready a car and go back to the other hotel. I hope you've brought some change for the occasion?"

"... I'll manage - I'll be right back," she said walking off, while Molly returned her eyes to Sherlock was staring at his phone again.

"So - what  _did_  he say?" she asked.

"That I owe him for  _Le Miserable_ ," he said with a heavy sigh, suddenly holding out his other available hand before she'd had time to ask.

Molly stared at his hand.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Take it," he said with a nod towards his hand.

She laughed at this display of  _romance_. "...You could have just taken my hand, you know," as she let him hold her hand, his mouth tilting upwards as she did so.

"I wanted to see you smile," he murmured, his fingers brushing over her knuckles gently, eyes lifting up to meet hers. "Molly - I know I don't need to warn you to take care of yourself...I am only standing here breathing because of you, but I'd like you to be careful."

"I'll be alright."

He tilted his head briefly.

"I'll try, but you should too."

"People try to kill me all the time. They tend to miss frequently for some reason, though it helps when others jump in at the last minute." He suddenly scoffed, clearing his throat soundly. "Anyway - Tom is hardly a target," he said with a raised brow.

 

* * *

 

"I really don't want to do this," hissed Holly after they'd gotten into the lift, the pair of them wearing some decent dresses she'd brought along for the occasion (as Holly's  _dress_  wasn't as much a dress as it was an over-sized t-shirt, not that Molly wouldn't love to just show up in her pyjamas for the occasion, tired as she was). It had been a blessing to have a shower and a change of clothing, since Molly's luggage had thankfully been cleared from the crime-scene that was literally their old room.

They'd gotten a new room as compliments from the hotel itself, which had surprised her. When they'd left the night before they hadn't exactly left the room in ship-shape, but apparently the news of their innocence had reached the ears of the staff.

She would still be reluctant to let two previous suspects reside in her establishment if she had one.  _"Does this happen here often, you think?" she'd said to Sherlock - after being a bit put off by how merry the woman at the reception was under the circumstance, especially when the woman referred to the dead man as an 'unfortunate incident'._

" _Three times a year. It's only a four star hotel, after all," he said easily._

" _What?"_

" _I'm only joking. They know my name, or well, Mycroft's."_

" _...You know, you owe me for this."_

" _In what way?" he said looking suddenly intrigued._

_She blushed, making a face. "Not like that, I mean, after all of this is over-,"_

" _You want to go on a sex holiday?" he whispered adding a tiny gasp afterwards, grinning at her slight shock._

" _Sherlock..."_

" _Fine. I can't see why you're upset. You always planned to go to this hen party."_

" _Not like this."_

" _Possible suspect, you mean?"_

" _That's not funny."_

" _Yes, it is."_

_She grudgingly giggled, aware of how close he was standing, and she itched to touch him. "Okay then, just - take care of Tom," she said looking up at him, aware that his eyes had seemingly landed on her lips._

_They were alone after all._

" _Meat dagger can fend for himself," he said right before he leaned down, and she pulled back remarkably fast with slight grief._

" _No, you don't. Look after him."_

" _Fine," he said rolling his eyes. "- - - Can I kiss you now?"_

He never got the chance for that was when Holly appeared in her 'dress'. Sherlock let them get on their own, as he had business to take care of, besides speak to his brother some more. Molly spent the next couple of hours encouraging Holly to wear the  _dress_ , as they didn't need to ruffle more feathers than needed; especially when it was crucial they participate. 

"Pay attention," the voice of Mycroft had warned them over the speaker on Sherlock's phone, even if that was hardly new. She'd been overly vigilant during Jim's return, after all, but she wasn't going to treat this in the same maddening way.

"I don't want to go either, but we have to... We'll just have to remember why we're going," said Molly as the lifts doors opened and they both strode out.

"Should we tell her why we've come?" said Holly who dragged on the end of her dress, which was a bit short; it wasn't exactly equipped for her legs.

"Don't know," said Molly who caught the stare of Sherlock from the other side of the room, briefly smiling at him as he stood with the other men who were all keeping him at arms length.

Molly pointedly looked at him, and he grimaced in return, though he immediately tried to join the conversation being had, but she had inkling it had much to do with the blokes who'd begun staring at  _them_ wide-eyed.

"Have you changed Polly?" one of the men called out. "Nice legs." There were whistles from the men, which prompted Tom to stare, especially when Molly got them to walk quickly into the direction of the restaurant. Not keen on stopping for a chat.

"She's not told anyone, has she?" said Molly, though the answer to that very question came rather quickly when the table of ladies - including Polly - all shut their gob, eyes wide and mouth's slack, not giving her enough time to recover.

She'd hoped they'd be further in the restaurant.

Apparently not...

"No, don't think so," said Holly, while she tried to avoid the gaze of the woman at the end of the table looking like she wanted to beat the pair of them away with the breadsticks. " _Hi_..."

 

* * *

 

"Drinks," said one of the blonde haired men - Peter? Patrick? Puck? Or whatever other atrocity a single architect would be named -  _single_  - all the other men were, except the lone engaged meat-dagger who kept eyeing him with kicked puppy eyes. There was an expression of approval so apparent on his face, Sherlock felt rather sick, as if their roles were reversed. He wasn't the one snubbed here - ignorant of his fiancé - oh - too soon - "Do you want to?"

Sherlock stared, finally registering that the others were paying heed to his existence, and not merrily patting each other on the back in self-congratulating smugness.

"Why are you asking?" he said with raised brows. Their plans didn't mean anything to him, though, he did want to stay close enough to the hotel, but he suspected they wouldn't be creative in their choice of venue, except something grimier in appearance.

"Well, umm, I want all of us-," Tom made a decisive gesture with his hand, while Sherlock watched in mild amusement at the other slightly disgruntled faces surrounding him. " - To share in the fun, even you, especially when the girls seem to be hitting if off..." It irked him that in some way, Tom - reminded him of his father.

Narrowing his eyes, he pressed his lips together, "Ah." Of all things he did not want to associate to his father, it was Molly's ex-fiancé.

"So - drinks?" said Tom with a bright smile.

"Good idea," Sherlock said quickly, plastering on a smile for the man's benefit, and hoping the evening could end quickly enough. He was practically crossing his fingers for a disaster of some kind to take place, but clearly their dangerous foes for the night were rather kiddie-friendly.

Everyone else seemed to regain happier expressions at his normalcy, except when one of the men darted out with a sharp - "You can both bond over shagging the same girl over several pints!" Sherlock's fake smile dropped.

_Oh Goodie, the village idiot._

 

* * *

 

Molly tried smiling, shifting slightly on her feet, as she stared at the women who all eyed her and Holly like they were harbouring some antiquated decease. She would rather be doing extra shifts in the lab, even fetching Sherlock coffee, than subject herself to this, but she put on a cheek-hurting smile instead. "So-,"

"Didn't you murder someone?" blurted the woman she knew went by the name Olivia with her ginger curls.

It was one of those rare moments where she'd almost forgotten about  _that_ , which was quite a thing to forget. Knitting her brows she quickly said, "Umm, no, actually - he had a heart attack - so I didn't kill anyone."

"How did he get into your room?" continued Olivia.

Opening her mouth, she quickly shut it as she found Polly's eyes fixed on her, a rather direct gaze compared to her sister. It was almost funny how rough Holly looked, but how soft she was, while her twin was the very pinched-nosed-upper-class-stiff. The fact that Holly wasn't saying anything was certainly not helping, though it was clear that the female was equally intimidated. And Molly knew she needed to come up with a better explaining than the one her mind was brandishing with neon signs - " _Polly and Holly thought they'd killed a man and put him away in my hotel room."_

"You can't just blurt out that someone's a murderer," said Iris like there was a protocol, smacking the Olivia on the arm. "Sorry Molly - I don't think you are though, if that helps, and I'm actually more interested in her  _sister_?" The women around the long table all turned their heads towards Polly. "Or isn't she your sister, as she looks the spitting image of you?"

"Do you want to sit down, then?" said Polly with that pearly white smile of hers, which didn't reach her eyes, but for once, it seemed that Molly wasn't the only one who picked up on that detail. Everyone else glanced at each other at the overt - under the rug sweeping, which wasn't working, though Polly tried. "Sit?"

"...Thank God," breathed Holly besides her as she dropped into an available chair, the pair of them eyeing each other, both already sensing how long the night would be. But Molly didn't know how sitting down would actually help with it being rather tense.

Hopefully, she thought, hopefully Sherlock was having more fun.

 

* * *

 

"Alex!" snapped one of the men, giving the man a less than playful smack on the back of his head, which he immediately flinched at.

"Oh - - you're the moron - sorry - I'd forgotten," said Sherlock scrunching his nose slightly, while the others stared at him in blank surprise, except Tom who was looking at him with somewhat akin to gratefulness (or he was misinterpreting that expression).

"We've met-," began Alex who took a step forward blinking, suddenly aware of what he'd just missed, nostrils flaring - " - sorry - what did you _just_  call me?"

"Moron? - - Might want to have your hearing checked," he said with an innocent face, while the man in question was subdued with a simple touch on the shoulder by one of the others. Clearly by his stance, he was known to be rather physical. Somehow, despite the various warning signals that were hissing by this man's presence, Sherlock couldn't help but want to egg him on.

The stag would be more interesting.

He could have stayed in the hotel, or perhaps even followed the women from a certain distance, but his dear older brother had been particularly insistent he attend this bit of the evening - " _And perhaps mend some bridges - before - you're questioning the position this man once held, even if you feel you're the fast favourite-,"_

" _I'm not-,"_

" _Jealous? Oh no. I wasn't implying that, but we both know how greedy you can be. I'm rather grateful, I'd be fatter if it weren't for you."_

" - You complete cock-,"

He should have been paying attention, he thought rather belatedly, especially when he found himself taken aback by the moron's large fist.

The stag hadn't even begun and he was already in a scuffle.

 

* * *

 

Molly had felt  _something_  was off when most of the staff was sprinting away from the restaurant to apparently help with some 'fight' by the reception, or that's the only word she managed to remember from her little translation book (besides the sound of shouting from afar, difficult not to notice).

_No._

_He hadn't?_

She almost texted him, but she resisted, especially when everyone around the table were eating their dinner with some precision. There had been some talk, all of it wedding-related, which was thankfully not a complete nightmare to discuss. It wasn't her intent to direct attention to herself, but for once, no one seemed keen on putting her - or even - Holly underneath the spotlight in that manner. "So - you must know your way around Rome?" said a woman called Emma to Holly.

She was clearly one of Polly's closest friends, yet, she'd seemed  _as_  surprised by the whole event like the rest, but remarkably cool about it.

"Oh, not at all," said Holly looking mildly confused.

"Weren't you - born - here?" said Emma mid-chew, eyes darting towards Polly who was breathing through her nose heavily.

"No, where did you -  _oh_ -," Holly shut her gob at that, pursing her lips and dropping her cutlery to take a large sip of her white wine, eyes flicking off to Molly who didn't know what to do either. After all, Holly's lies wouldn't have been uncovered if they'd not been there, then again, why was she lying to begin with? " - - How much have you actually lied about Pol?" Holly bit out. "I was into drugs by the way, dad was or  _is_  a bit of a drunk and mum is a hideo-,"

"You're one to talk-," said Polly who immediately got to her feet, her chair clattering to the carpeted floors with a thud, before she stormed off to everyone's mutual surprise, causing mouths to shoot off in more than one way, but nobody seemed to be rising to follow after the female.

Molly saw the evident regret on Holly's face, but she kept her back when she seemed to be getting up - "I'll go - she doesn't like me, but I'll explain-," she whispered and the woman hesitantly nodded.

She got to her feet and instantly ignoring the curious glances coming her way. Stepping out of the restaurant she found the reception quiet and virtually free from the stag party. Polly was sat on one of the longue chairs, long legs crossed, as she seemed to be holding back tears. Molly settled down on the one opposite to her, only getting a rather fierce look in return - "Umm, you don't mind?"

"I do, but you're bound to appear anyway," she said glowering, and seemingly awaiting some sort of explanation. "Why are you here?"

"... The body you dropped in my room-,"

"I didn't know it was  _your_  room!" said Polly.

"I know - - your sister sort of explained - anyway - your sister's warning wasn't just rubbish, you know-,"

"Sort of got that when a man tried to strangle me - oh God - God - let me guess - I'm going to be murdered the night before my wedding? Nice way to top off this whole weekend, then, isn't it?" said Polly with a face that didn't look extremely smug or perpetually pleased. Molly rather liked her better like this hysterical mess. "Haven't you ruined enough?"

"No," quipped Molly with a slight smile, which did not get the desired laugh, as much as Polly gaping at her. "You really are in danger, though, so it's not just-,"

"You taking the piss? ...Right. God - - you know when Tom first mentioned asking you I thought, well, I hated it to be honest, but I didn't want to be that terrible fiancé who was such a bitch about it - I wanted to be cool-,"

"It's your wedding-," said Molly with an apologetic face.

"Thank you!" said Polly looking relieved that she agreed. "It's like, of course you'll show up, and be all enigmatic-,"

" _Enigmatic?"_

"Your boyfriend taking you off on a moped, while we're basically going through Wikipedia-," said Polly with a snort, soon laughing genuinely. "And Tom's all - this is  _bliss_ , which, it wasn't - - - and I'm - oh God - he's a tiny bit of an idiot, isn't he?"

Molly nodded slowly at that, getting another round of laughter from the bride-to-be. "Somehow, I still love him," said Polly abruptly looking forlorn. "But what's he going to think of me now? I'm only barely passable in Italian, and, I'm so not interesting. I modelled for a catalogue, not Italian Vogue."

"I don't know - the identical twin and hiding away a corpse is pretty interesting?" said Molly in an encouraging tone. "... I don't really think he minds a few lies, as long as you don't lie about what you feel about  _him_."

Polly smiled all of a sudden, sudden brightness reaching her eyes. "You know, I think I'm ready to face the lot - - and you know - - I can see why he really wanted you to come."

"Yes, I don't mind dead bodies much," she said grinning. "Hiding them in my room isn't that big of a problem."

"Oh - wait - I forgot what you worked with - _god_  - glad I remembered that-," said Polly giggling, stopping up all of a sudden. "Are there really people coming to kill us?"

Molly made a face at that.

 

* * *

 

He'd never understood the aspect of the adolescent beatings, which boys at his school took to. R _oughhousing_ had been regularly something he avoided, except in those few intricate moments he knew John needed to feel better, and apparently punching him did.

When they'd finally been extracted from each other, and he'd gotten to throw a few punches, the man had clapped him on the back laughing heartily, while he was plotting the fastest way to murder him (specific point on his thick throat, asphyxiation, heart stopping, death). Clearly there were some social things he did not fully understand, especially when the one apologizing turned out to be Tom, repeatedly even, when they'd finally found a dodgy clammy bar with sticky floor to appease them (the alcohol was cheap, the taste peculiar and more pungent). "Sorry.  _Sorry_ ," said Tom once more, and Sherlock tried not to reflect too much on the fact that ' _Staying Alive'_  was playing on the speakers.

Actual coincidence.

Not coincidence,  _coincidence._

Popular song.  _Yes._

Jiminy-Jim just choosing a number one hit.

"It's fhine-," he bit out, his voice a tiny bit more slurred than expected. He stared at his glass. It was his third glass, and he was only supposed to have three in total, as dissuading anyone of his not drinking had been futile. When everyone else had commented on the flavour of the beer, he hadn't found it suspicious, especially when he wasn't intricately familiar with the flavours (Molly was the one who'd recommended  _what_  type him and John drink after all during the last stag). " _You_ -," he said pointing at Alex who'd been overly cheery ever since they'd stepped into the bar. "Tequila?"

The man winked at him. "Vodka."

"Really, really, sorry," said Tom.

He was drunk.

 

* * *

 

When they'd gotten back to the table, it seemed that Holly was leading the conversation - " - And Pol was of course the only one who dared say anything back - giving the bloke a vice grip around his-,"

"No!" started Polly. "Let's not - let's not revisit that particular moment, shall we?" The women who'd been indulging in drinks it seemed looked rather upset by this, though also glad the bride had returned to the table with a happier disposition. Molly received appreciative smiles at that, and the two of them settled down, while Holly seemed to withdraw instead, staring down at her lap in silence.

"Holly, why can't you tell them about  _Rupert_?" asked Polly which made her sister look up in surprise.

"Rupert? Really?"

"Yeah, really- I want you to-," she said.

There was some sort of silent understanding between the sisters, as Holly soon shot off with - "So, my mate Rupert was on a holiday in Brazil-,"

 

* * *

 

"Sthop apologizing," he said budging away from Tom in the seat, rubbing at his eyes in annoyance.

He was supposed to keep an eye open.

His eyes were half-shut.

He was also not supposed to drink anymore, but what could  _one_  more drink do - when it was too late, after all? They weren't in danger. Molly was.

"Wait-," he started - "They're in-,"

"You're supphosed to apologize! You were a crush! I was real."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gaped at Tom.

"I  _ahm_  real, thank you vhery much," he spat.

"And you were all eyesss-,"

"I wasn't  _eyess_ -,"

"You put me off at the wedding! When she kissed me - you looked like you were about to-," Tom immediately gestured at his eyes - " - Daggers. Eyes."

"Maybe you shouldn't have slipped them vodka?" Peter whispered to Alex who gave a shrug in return, more amused by the display.

"Imagine how they'd be if they'd been sober? ...No they'll be all right," he said grinning.

 

* * *

 

" - - So Rupert doesn't know what to do - and pulls up his trousers and leaves-," finished Holly and all the girls lost it.

"Oh my God!" said Iris. "Poor bloody idiot."

Polly's admittance of being less posh had certainly unwound the entire group of ladies, as it was clear that several had lied about themselves as well, prompting more laughter between them all. Molly was still having fun despite having not touched a drop of alcohol; instead she was keeping an eye out and a glass of water close by. The hotel bar was hardly a dangerous place, but she still felt like being vigilant. She could only assume that Sherlock was on full alert as well.

Speaking of which, her phone suddenly began to ring with a foreign number. She excused herself from the ladies, which prompted looks from the sisters who clearly remembered the situation at hand.

"Molly?" said the familiar voice of Sherlock, huskier and a bit - slurred.

"Sherlock?" she said surprised. "Are you alright?" This wasn't the first time she'd experienced something like this, but he wouldn't, especially when they were supposed to be taking the evening seriously. "Have you been drinking?"

She heard something that she could define as a struggle, or perhaps a silent battle over the phone, but it seemed that the heavy breather won. " - - - - - Problem," Sherlock said on the other end after a minute.

"Problem?"

"Yes, Tom and I seem to have been kidnapped."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's sad? I edited out the Brazil story, but I couldn't work it in. It's a true story. Also, it's not really my story to tell. But it is hilarious and has people rolling on the floor kind of funny. Oh and hello. Yes. Update? I know, right? What? Well, the good news. This is soon over. This is so crack, it has to be. Thank you to those who came this far down the page. I'm in awe.


	11. Undici

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'This is crack' I remind myself two in the morning. Thank you to those of you who read this for some magical reason. You're all wonderful and amazing people, 10 000 kudos to you. Thank you to those who leave reviews on this insane thing, as an old girl needs it sometimes. Thank you. Yes, I know I didn't take too long, did I? Look at me. Updating.

Her shrill ' _What_?' didn't go unnoticed, as the man manning the desk upfront stared. Moving away from the entrance of the restaurant Molly tried to adjust her voice an inch or two - "What? - - What do you mean you're kidnapped? This isn't the stag-do is it?" she said with her brows knitted together, but she only got deep breathing as an answer on the other end. It was the sort of breathing she knew was one of a very pissed Sherlock, as the last time he'd rung her up like this was during John's stag (though he'd hung up after a minute or two, and when she'd asked he claimed he was going to tell her how offended he was of her  _miscalculation_ ). "Sherlock?"

 

"Ah - yes - it's fhine-," he said hushing her from the other end. " - We're just a bhit kidnapped."

 

Either he was drunk or he was pretending to be drunk. With him she never really knew. "A bit?" she echoed in confusion.

 

" _My wedding's in the morning you complete arse_ -," shouted another voice in the background, clearly Tom who she knew had a tendency to become a bit more vocal when imbibing.

 

" _So_... Kidnapped?" she said.

 

"This isn't my fault," said Sherlock in a rather juvenile tone, but not directed so much to her as it was to Tom.

 

" _Really? - - - Really?"_

 

"You're not joking, then?" she said beginning to pace.

 

They could be laying about somewhere (laying on a pair of steps, stuck in a lift). Kidnapped felt like a bit of a stretch. She and the others were the ones who were  _supposed_  to be in immediate danger (with Mr Black in the back of her head) after all, but apparently because  _he'd_  gotten some drink in him, he was the damsel in distress! Somehow she felt more annoyed than worried - - as she knew Sherlock would never just get unintentionally kidnapped. It was typical of him to do something like this; maybe he was even laying on the drunkenness a bit thick as well, or, he really was pissed and they had a whopper of a problem. He wasn't exactly in the right state of deducing wherever the hell he was supposed to be if that was the case.

 

"Of course it's not  _my_  fault," said Sherlock still side tracked.

 

Molly sighed pressing her hand on her hip. "Sherlock-," she began hoping he'd give her some proper answers, any answers really.

 

"They allowed me this pho-," and that's when she heard the dial tone.

 

_Bloody hell._

 

Where was Mary when she needed her?

 

* * *

 

She wasn't  _action woman._ She was the one in the lab after all. Mary was the one who'd occasionally get the boys out if they were in trouble, while she occasionally handed in the paperwork that locked up the villains. One lesson in self-defence didn't mean she'd be whopping anyone's arse, even if she knew exactly where to injure someone with a scalpel. Nothing really made sense, but she knew of another person who had clearly been neglecting his job entirely, Sherlock's big brother.

Somehow Mycroft not taking the situation seriously didn't surprise her. Sherlock had ranted about his older brother being rather, for a better word, lazy. The man seemed to run everything safely from behind his desk, though she knew he had a right softness for his brother, it didn't excuse this clear negligence.

She hurried back to the restaurant again, slowing her pace when she realised that the others might think something was wrong, and smiled sweetly at the sight of the table of ladies. Both of the sisters were staring at her - Holly was soon up and out of her seat, while Polly was drumming her nails on the table.

Clearly both of them had noticed her less than brief disappearance.

 

"The boys have sort of...gotten - lost?" she said glad that the chatter around the table didn't die out, soon gesturing to the exit with her thumb. "I thought I'd pick them up-,"

 

"Polly!" someone shouted behind her. Peter one of the groomsmen soon stood besides her, beetroot red in face, panting and clutching at his side, while Marcus followed him resting his hands on his knees. "Someone shoved - Tom and Sherlock into a van! The two of us got knocked out and the rest of the lads were just left behind-,"

 

" _What?"_

 

Keeping everyone calm was clearly not an option.

 

* * *

 

It was a large empty storage house - - except for the two wooden chairs (from Ikea, newly purchased for the occasion), which they were both tied up to, rope around the midriff (neither of their captors were keen on a demonstration of proper 'rope-tying'). Somehow he was mildly disappointed. Two henchmen in tight-fitting t-shirts with heavy Russian accents had appeared - prison tattoos - veins showing in their bulging biceps, and he'd said - "Take me to your leader."

The moron that was the valiant meat-dagger proceeded to catapult himself off the sidewalk onto the stereotypical white van, which Sherlock had comfortably seated himself inside, intent to throw out some garbled insults in Russian, knowing that the two men were mostly for show, but instead he had to take the less than serious event -  _seriously._

He'd been right in assuming Tom wasn't in danger, except from himself, especially since even the henchmen stuffed a cloth in his mouth out of sheer exhaustion over the fact that he kept shouting about being a British citizen. Sherlock knew that whoever was the boss of these men wasn't a real threat, especially when their tactic wasn't blowing up most of Rome to get his attention.

No, they picked him up instead.

But it didn't excuse the waiting period.

The call to Molly had merrily been to detain the rest of the party who'd certainly alert the ladies and throw them into hysterics. Somehow Sherlock enjoyed the idea of Mycroft suffering Molly's temper, despite knowing that she wouldn't like him walking calmly into danger, but he also knew she _rather_ liked it.

"The excitement over being kidnapped has certainly turned lacklustre these days," Sherlock sighed. "No torture - even. A bit dull," he said making a face, while Tom stared at him. "What?"

 

"...You've been kidnapped before?"

 

"Yes," scoffed Sherlock. "It's hardly a novelty in this industry. Bad men usually want to make deals, and kidnapping are the way they to go to make those deals."

 

"Did you want to be kidnapped tonight?"

 

"Yes? Did you not see me get _into_  the van?"

 

"Then can you tell them to let me go?!"

 

"Not exactly how this works, Tom. It's easier getting kidnapped, than it is getting out of being kidnapped, though that's technically child's play as well."

 

"I'm - getting - married - tomorrow-," said Tom with gritted teeth, jostling in his seat, causing the chair to wobble against the floor.

 

"Don't have friends who spike your drinks, then."

 

"Right, right - like -  _this_  - is all my fault-,"

 

"Okay, don't have a fiancé who hides a dead body in your exes hotel room," he quipped seeing Tom's eyes widen before him. "Didn't tell you? Hmm? Not surprised - - and you're getting married in the morning - -  _ding dong - the bells are gonna chime_ -,"

 

* * *

 

 _Panic._ There were some who seemed excited that something like this happened, while some cried. She'd barely known what to do, except shout for them all to shut up, which they did. Dragging the sisters away with her, as they were involved seemed logical. Explaining to them why Mycroft Holmes could help them was more difficult, though apparently saying he was sort of - " _M from James Bond?"_  helped for some reason.

"It was an accident," drawled the voice of Mycroft on the speakerphone, while Polly kept pacing about the hotel room, occasionally glaring at Molly's mobile phone for a want of something better to do. "Sherlock admittedly went in with the men, and it didn't raise any flags. Until of course Miss Pedretti's fiancé ran to his rescue...according to my men-,"

 

"But your men didn't do anything?" Molly said with crossed arms.

 

"No, they assumed it was a part of the stag, though when they had reason to believe it wasn't, they'd lost track of the van itself. It had fake licence plates, I'm afraid, and went out of the areas that are under surveillance-,"

 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" snapped Polly, stopping in her stride. "Are we just supposed to wait around here until they're- they're-," she didn't finish the rest of her sentence, soon leaning against her sister Holly who began stroking her hair.

 

Mycroft sighed on the other end. "They'll be fine. My brother has a knack for getting himself out of these sticky situations. Remaining calm is perhaps the better option in this occasion."

 

There was something in his tone of voice, just something that was so very off, like he was hiding something.

 

"You know who has him, don't you?" she said out loud, wondering if she was actually right.

 

"Wha -  _what_? What gives you that idea, Molly?" he said in an all-too innocent tone, quite like his little brother.

 

"Mycroft - what's going on?"

 

There was a slight breathy pause on the other end, while the sisters both listened intently, expressions darker. "We need him to strike a deal with the man," he said clearing his throat.

 

* * *

 

Occasionally someone's fist would bang on the door from the other side, though it did not silence Molly's ex-fiancé. "What do you mean she's killed a man?" he guffawed.

 

"Again... She has not killed a man. She merrily witnessed a man having heart failure with her sister-,"

 

" - - Her sister who is also her twin?"

 

"Yes.  _Holly._  Creative parents, obviously."

 

"But - but she didn't tell me? She tells me everything."

 

"Feminine  _mystique_ , Tom," he said smirking. "Anyway, it's better to know as little as possible about your future wife."

 

"You know everything about Molly - about everyone really-,"

 

"I'm an exception," he said and it took him a minute to understand he'd just agreed to marry her, whenever that marrying would take place was another question entirely...

 

"I should have known we'd never work out," said the man -  _sniffing._

 

Sherlock crinkled his nose. He liked it better when the man was red-faced and irritating, than having feelings before him. The buzz he had, had long since vanished after all.

 

"You looked exactly like me," he said, causing Tom to look up at him in surprise.

 

"What?"

 

"You looked exactly like me," he repeated rolling his eyes. "What did you expect would happen exactly?"

 

The man didn't answer, his eyes shifting away, until he finally shrugged. "I was - I was just...I knew what she liked okay-," he said.

 

"Sorry? You dressed up like me  _intentionally_  and you chose that low-quality coat?"

 

"That coat cost loads!"

 

Sherlock scoffed. "Doubtful..."

 

"Anyway I ended it."

 

" _You_ ended it?"

 

"Fine! We both ended it, really."

 

"I don't hope this is the point you confess you're still in love with her-,"

 

"I am, but not  _in_  love with her like you are."

 

"Good..."

 

"So -  _you're_  in love with her?" said Tom looking at him with narrowed eyes.

 

"What's it to you?"

 

"I - - just don't want to see her hurt - she told me of how much of an arse you used to be and-,"

 

"I don't deserve her, I know, but then again, I don't think there's a single man who does-," said Sherlock with a vague smile, annoyed to see the other man looking rather satisfied by his answer. He proceeded to clear his throat, glad to hear the metallic door opening. " - - - Our captor finally comes to-," he pursed his lips in surprise. " _Ah."_

 

* * *

 

"He's a  _Mr Bewick_ -," continued Mycroft.

 

"Who?"

 

"He was brought to Sherlock's attention some years ago when he was accused of murdering his girlfriend in Belarus - it seems that he's learned since then, and has acquired some influence."

 

" _Oh God_ ," said Molly remembering, as she could exactly forget that.

 

Sherlock so bored he went down to Belarus on a mere whim.

 

"What?" said Holly.

 

"Mycroft... did Sherlock tell you what he did when he was down there?"

 

* * *

 

"I didn't get hung, as you can see, Mr Holmes!" said Mr Bewick stepping inside the room wearing a clean-cut suit, hands in his pockets, as he smirked at him. The exterior might have altered, but the interior had certainly not improved. However he was  _not_  going to say anything.

 

"...I think you mean hanged?" said Tom to Sherlock's surprise.


	12. Dodici

Two options. Either Bewick had lured him into a false sense of security _or_ “ - Make your mate shut up would you-,” the man said while the two burly henchmen reappeared in the room as if they added substantial grit to the situation, backing Bewick with matching grins. _Option number two then_ , thought Sherlock almost rolling his eyes at the current predicament. He knew one of the henchmen was carrying a gun, while Bewick bore a knife (apparently his suit was rather tight around the groin for some apparent dominance reason), which he apparently still had a penchant for.

 

“ - - How did you get out then? I’m sure you’re keen on regaling us with your story?” said Sherlock with a brief smile, wondering how on earth he’d been tricked during the phone-call. His hormones had done most of the thinking, evidently, or else Bewick had used another subordinate, or maybe he’d written what he was going to say beforehand.

 

“I thought you said he wasn’t dangerous?” said Tom, eyes darting from him to the _master criminal_.

 

Bewick laughed - his henchmen followed suit. _Really?_ There was a limit to criminal clichés, and he was having them. Sherlock was somehow rather sad to see that John couldn’t be there to enthral them with his sarcastic commentary, as he could see this easily as a very amusing post on the man’s blog (not that he’d say that out loud). John would be overjoyed for such a lethal, yet numbingly stereotypical scenario.

 

“Hmm. Man with a knife - Tom, and we’re the ones all tied up. Precisely how _not_ in danger did you think we were? Avoid pointing out his flawed grammar again though - our last parting words weren’t the happiest,” said Sherlock in one breath while Bewick’s furrow between his brows grew, whether out of anger or just perplexity was hard to say. Somehow death at the hand of this man seemed too simple, too easy a way to go, and almost yawn-inducing. “He was supposed to be hung - I mean _hanged_ ,” he said with still a pleasant smile.

 

“Okay,” said Tom in a small voice, grimacing and eyeing the thugs nervously. Hopefully this meant he wouldn’t be talking anymore, as Sherlock couldn’t risk the man getting hurt.

 

He’d never hear the end of it.

 

“Yeah-,” said Bewick with a nod, absolutely confused apparently which made Sherlock vaguely pity him. “Listen to the men in charge-,”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyeing the oblivious Russian thugs behind Bewick who also were in charge as well, evidently.

 

“...Nope. Can’t do this. _Man. You’re_ the man in charge, so - _man_ \- not men. Or do the colleagues behind you have more brainpower than yours put together? - - Probably. But I still have some faith in you Bewick. Come on. Tell your story so you might kill us faster.”

 

Bewick blinked, “Sorry? What did you say-,”

 

Tom snorted.

 

The knife was suddenly drawn and extra-present with its thick blade, recently sharpened and cleaned, thankfully. He’d rather not be sliced with a rusty-looking knife.

 

Blood poisoning wasn’t appealing at length.

 

“Yeah, not laughing now are yah! Bloody well shouldn’t, Imma getting the respect I earned Mr Holmes. I earned a lot of respect courtesy of a Mr Moriarty.”

 

_Oh, how the mighty hath fallen._ He immediately glanced at Tom and was disappointed to find an ignorant look in return. Molly or John would have both found it amusing that Jim Moriarty, master-criminal with his gigantic web would have left behind his kingdom for a mere stooge.

 

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but Jim’s quite dead.”

 

“I know. Took his place, can’t you see?” he said it as if they’re being there was an incredible magic trick and not a simple drive over.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes briefly. “ - No, not really. Or is this what’s left of Jim Moriarty’s colourful legacy? Did I miss out on one abandoned warehouse in Rome?”

 

“Who says we’re in Rome, Mr Holmes?” said Brewick grinning.

 

“ _Weeell_. It only took us about an hour to get here, so yes, we’re on the outskirts, but hardly outside Italy if that’s what you’re insinuating-,” _as it was hardly possible they were outside the country._

 

There was a moment of silence where the two thugs shuffled awkwardly behind Bewick, one of them even going so far as lowering their heads.

 

The comical air was unbelievably thick.

 

Sherlock was suddenly reminded of the private school he’d been sent to, though Bewick hardly looked like the severe schoolmaster he’d had, and the henchman both looked like they could knock him out with an easy slap.

 

“You were supposed to gag _and_ blind them-,” Bewick snapped, blade still held high in his hand, eyes manic now, as he directed his anger to his two men.

 

The one who wasn’t lowering his head spoke, “Sorry boss, but Mr Holmes did not struggle. You say if struggle. We gag, but he keep quiet. Make nice jokes, Mr Holmes did. He know a lot of Russian, really good accent!” He directed a small smile towards Sherlock, which was why the other thug knocked him round the midriff, trying to cut him off from giving further compliments.

 

Sherlock half-expected them to be fan of John’s blog at this rate.

 

“Thank you,” he said with a brief nod, smirking up at the man who gave him a small bow of the head in return, clearly not deterred by the glares of the other man and Bewick.

 

Tom stared at him gobsmacked.  

 

“Right, right, right-,” said Bewick, eyes darting about, knife once more directed to Sherlock and Tom. He was trying to reassert control, which wasn’t working well for him, and so Sherlock knew easily how to break him.

 

“Are you going to kill us or not?” he said.  

 

“ - - Can you ask that?” it spluttered out of Tom.

 

“I thought I might as well give it a go, as we’re in this situation. It’s hardly uncalled for,” he said with a shrug, turning to look at Bewick. Tom followed suit; the pair of them staring at the man expectantly.

 

Bewick blinked.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re hardly in _real_ danger-,” said the voice of Mycroft trying to calm her down. She had to take him off the speaker, as Polly had been quite vocal and rather abrasive, to the point that Holly had to take her out of the room for a bit of air. Molly wasn’t far from the edge herself, but she had to keep calm. There was no point for her to be in absolute hysterics, especially when Mycroft was being so obnoxiously calm. It wasn’t like she hadn’t explained the grammar-aspect of it all, and how insulted the man would probably be, or the potential connection to Jim Moriarty (a long stretch, then again, who knew?).

 

She sighed, “So... What’s going to happen now? Am I just supposed to sit around waiting for you to fix this?” The concept of being useless wasn’t ideal. Whenever anything ever happened she’d been out there after all, in some aspect or the other, even if it was just behind the scenes.

 

“... He’d never forgive me if I let you help. He’s hardly forgiven me for the last lapse. I think - you getting in harms way _another_ time - would make him disown me thoroughly.”

 

“Is there anything I can do?” she said ignoring him.

 

“Get the bride ready for tomorrow? Both of them will be there, hardly with the use of my best abilities as well.”

 

“You _promise_ they’ll be there - or so help me-,”

 

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “I have my best man on it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Well - _are_ you?” Sherlock asked with an eyebrow raised at Bewick whose grip around the knife faltered. This was a line of questioning the man hadn’t expected, and Sherlock had already calculated where he could best put his weight when he knocked the knife out of the man’s hand with the use of his chair, but his daring attempt wouldn’t be needed - -

 

The metal door to the storage room bounded open - “Police! You’re under arrest!”

 

“ _Greg_?” said Sherlock making a face.

 

“I’ve always fancied a trip to Rome,” said Lestrade grinning and showing off his white pearly teeth, before he looked at him wide-eyed. “You - know - my name?”


	13. Tredici

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know if I were sitting in my pants on a Sunday morning, and had watched this, let's pretend this was a film yeah? I would give it two stars. Two is when it's so bad it's starting to look good, well, if you're hungover and eating crisps while still in your pants on a Sunday - good - that is.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but as you know that's my middle name by now.

She supposed the rural Church had looked lovely in the planning stage, the sort of thing made magical with enough glossy brochures. It was small, old, and romantic, except when the temperatures crept up to a good 38 degrees and over 100 guests were all crammed into it, filling every inch, fanning themselves at frequent intervals and constantly asking her and others - "What  _is_  going on? Where is the groom?"

 

Molly had been forced into a pink slip of a thing, previously belonging to one of the bridesmaids who'd walked off when Polly had gotten a bit  _too_  upset. No one could really blame her, the delay seemed never-ending, and Polly was put in the hottest corner of the church as well, boiling in her white chiffon dress. The bride-to-be had long ago lost her patience with Molly, and so she'd taken to hide out with some of the other bridesmaids frequently checking her phone, as her last texts with Mycroft hadn't been encouraging.

 

**_We've lost them - MH_ **

 

_WHAT?_

 

**_I'll handle it - MH_ **

 

Before he texted a smiley after a good full minute when she didn't feel like giving him an answer. This wasn't the level of confidence from yesterday, especially when he couldn't even bother ringing her up anymore, which meant he truly was busy trying to find them. It was when the hour was long upon them, and the bride was bordering on manic that Molly was rung up by an unknown number, "Hello?" she said holding her breath and just hoping -

 

"Molly-," the other end crackled, though Sherlock's familiar voice was still discernible. "You need to pick us up."

 

"What?  _Where are you_?"

 

* * *

 

Greg had been taking a well-deserved nap on his settee when he'd gotten rung up by Mycroft Holmes, the man of mystery and on occasion his boss (though the how and why did evade him entirely, not that he minded really, usually it was kind of exciting).

 

"I need you to handle a delicate matter-," the older Holmes brother started off with, making him immediately sit up in anticipation.

 

_MI6._

 

_CIA._

 

He was keen on whatever they wanted him to do, okay, maybe not anything out of his field of expertize, not everything was his area, but he really did want to experience something that didn't have Sherlock Holmes' bloody name attached to it. "I need you to babysit my little brother."

 

"What?" he said jaw slack all of a sudden, and immediately offended until Mycroft lathered it up with lots of glamorous sound words -  _Rome - luxury hotel - time off -_  of course he ended up in a tiny little room and had full-on-surveillance (laptops, cameras, snazzy phones, even tracking devices - very 007) on Mycroft's brother because he sensed something fishy was going on (the essence of paranoia).

 

"He has a tendency to get himself into - trouble. I think you're familiar with that?"

 

"And you want me to watch over him like some bloody house-trained-pet?"

 

"Yes? ...Do you mind?"

 

He'd followed the careful instructions from Mycroft to keep a low profile (literal instructions on the  _how,_  as Sherlock would be able to spot him easily otherwise according to Mycroft, not himself, he knew he was good at staying hidden), though it was much easier in the end, as Sherlock was spending the majority of his time keen on Molly Hooper the pathologist from St Bart's - "I really didn't see that ever happening - - did you know?" in between bites of a delicious little 'nibble' he'd found in some posh bakery (or well, he called it nibble, he couldn't remember the name).

 

"... Was there any other point to this phone call than informing me of my brother's foolish attachments?"

 

And then finally, something exciting happened. A dead ruddy body, but of course, he could do very little, being held away from the primary investigation ("I don't see the point of you meddling with the Italian police. He's not supposed to know you're there after all."). When the mysterious phone call and twin popped round, things  _really_  got interesting, but still he wasn't allowed near any of it.

 

Then thankfully, Sherlock got his arse kidnapped and Greg had to think on his feet, speeding after them in a taxi relishing the fact that he could do what he had only ever read in crime novels. But the shootout he imagined in his head did not happen that way whatsoever. The master criminal was a pathetic excuse of a man who got knocked out by his own men who had grown tired of him, and somehow George had wound up - - sitting on top of a large rock, the hot sun shining down on him and rest of them, except they were still out of it.

 

"OH COME ON," he shouted, teeth gritted as he saw Sherlock suddenly in a foetal position that turned into a crawl before he'd managed to get to his knees, but still struggling madly to stand up properly. "...Someone stole our car, remember?" he continued in a loud voice, gleefully watching the man flinch in return.

 

"Hardly - our - car," Sherlock returned when he got up, his voice grainy, though shouting at the top of his voice most of the night would do that. Sherlock grimaced, blinking slowly at him, before his eyes widened, alarm apparent on his face.

 

"Where's Tom?" he grabbed after his shoulders, but Greg yanked himself away.

 

"- - I'm here," said a small voice, and the pair of them stared around bewildered, until a hand waved out of a large bush, and the rest of Tom followed, but with a red rash on his face and neck. "I think I might have slept on some poison ivy, or the - umm - Italian equivalent? Having a bit of an allergic reaction, at least that's what I hope it is - - where's Sal and Francis?"

 

Being on first name terms with the men's supposed (or well actual) kidnappers had become a thing of the night, another unexpected factor, but the lads really did know how to party. When they'd sent off the successor to Moriarty to the police none of them had felt particularly keen on calling it a night.

 

"Got off with the car and our things," Greg said disgruntled and rather disappointed, he'd thought they'd be better than that.

 

"You let them go?" said Tom gaping at him, almost tripping over himself.

 

"No, I didn't bloody let them go," he spat. "I woke up to see them driving off with the van, and no Russians in sight. I wasn't in a fit state to run after them either, as if that would have helped anyway."

 

"Oh my god," said Tom. "Sal said he wanted to come to the wedding! I can't believe-,"

 

He was suddenly very glad Molly  _wasn't_ marrying this one.

 

"I think you might have underestimated the power of tequila," said Sherlock who was surveying the unknown wilderness they were at - on the side of a road - wherever the road was, but clearly not near civilisation.

 

"But how the hell do we get to the church in time?" said Tom rifling a hand through his hair, as he spun around on his feet (regretting that impulse immediately after).

 

"Do either of you have your phone?" said Sherlock who was patting at his dress jacket and coming up empty-handed.

 

"I said car  _and_  our things, not sure if I lost them at that bar last night or not - or was that someone's house? ..Hard to tell," said Greg with a sigh, grinning a bit despite himself.

 

"Tom?"

 

"Nothing,  _oh god_ , Polly is going to kill me!"

 

Sherlock ignored his hysterics, and directed his attention to Greg who was interested to see how they'd be sorting this out, the consulting detective's eyes particularly intense, hand on his shoulder as he was about to give him his plan - " - - We'll - walk."

 

"What?" Greg said gaping at him. "You don't have a plan?"

 

"I've hardly memorized the Italian countryside beforehand, have I?"

 

"But you said you knew-," whined Tom who was bent over, holding at his stomach.

 

"I was bluffing!" said Sherlock, a furrow growing between his brows, his patience clearly being tested.

 

Greg was about to say this was really quite fun when he heard a groan come from somewhere. "What's - what's that?" he said raising his brows.

 

"Does anyone need a phone?" said a voice and a large bush to their right shook vigorously - having somehow managed to conceal -  _Sal -_ "Yes? Who needs phone call?" the man continued magnificently burping and grinning at them before flashing his phone. "Sorry about Francis... His mother is sick, it's her car, though the phones-," he shrugged. "We lost our job last night. It's your fault. Do the math."

 

* * *

 

The yellow beetle whizzed forward, soon jolting to a stop before driving once more, trying to challenge the gravel on the Italian road to a duel, the tires screeching soundly. No one commented, as the slender hand drove the stick with a death grip, consternation evident on her face, all flushed and contorted.

 

Sherlock regretted taking the passenger seat for his long legs, though he hadn't dared argue against her driving, and no one would after the way she'd shut down Lestrade with just a silent glare, pointing at the car for the grown man to get into.

 

Glancing behind him, Sherlock saw that Tom's red rash wasn't improving whatsoever, and Lestrade who was having a whispered conversation with Sal (a man with an affinity for weddings "You're getting MARRIED! We cannot kidnap married man, nobody told us!").

 

" _Really_...? That's all you've got to say for yourselves," Molly's voice broke out, ending any whispered conversations had, the three men in the back immediately sitting upright, but all of them looking at him.

 

He realized looking towards the driver's seat that  _she_  was staring at him, her brown eyes fierce and fine eyebrows connected. "You - got -  _drunk_? You were kidnapped and then you got pissed? Why? How?  _Whyyy_?"

 

"It was a stag!" he said rolling his eyes. "You told me to act normal, remember?"

 

But from the intake of breath happening behind him (a soft " _Oh no, walked into that_ ," by Greg),  _this_  wasn't the appropriate answer; everyone was looking away now, except Molly.

 

The expression on her face - the pure disappointment - the fury - rather reminded him of his mother. "You could have called!" she said, her voice surprisingly shrill despite its usually sweet notes. "At least to tell either of us you were alright and not dead in a ditch! We were all worried sick, and now, apparently, the kidnapping situation absolved itself and turned into a bloody stag? Are you sure you were even kidnapped? It hardly feels like it - - I had a phone call from Mycroft that  _he_  couldn't find you and that he was sorry, but you were outside of his jurisdiction - bloody Mycroft! And the best you can give me as form of an apology is -  _it was a stag_?!"

 

No one in the backseat was any help when he turned around with some hope - he wasn't the only one to blame - "Tom's the one getting married-," he bit out. "So I think you'll find that  _he_ -,"

 

"No - you don't. I have been dealing with a beyond irritated bride in a hot little church that has no air-condition with more than a hundred guests all crammed into it while wearing fabric that doesn't breathe - - so  _excuse me_  for being angry, but I think I've got the bloody right to be cross when I have to pick the lot of you on the side of the road using the priests' car because he was the only one who had GPS - THIS IS NOT the UK version of the Hangover-,"

 

"That's a good film-," said Sal in a small voice behind them.

 

" - - I didn't expect to spend the morning driving here, from all I know all of the guests have left-," continued Molly ignoring him.

 

"They have?" moaned Tom from the back seat, his crimson face in his hands.

 

"You could hardly blame them, Tom! The wedding was supposed to be two hours ago! Me stealing the priests' car was the only way he'd stay-," she snapped and Sherlock raised his brows in surprise.

 

"You stole the priests car?" he said impressed.

 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her stern expression lightening up as a smile appeared on her face. "...You're not getting off that easily."

 

"I'm - not?" he murmured, glad to see however angry she was that she _was_  happy to see him.

 

To his annoyance however, Lestrade who was squashed in the middle of Tom and Sal, leaned forward, grinning at the pair of them - "So... You two? - - Is it serious?"

 

"You have the subtlety of a brick, George," he said looking out of the car window, feigning interest for the Italian countryside and not the reflection of Molly's thigh on the glass. The dress was just a  _bit_  too short and tight when she was sitting - he couldn't help but observe.

 

Lestrade made a face and leaned quietly back again in return, staring a hole at the back of his head. It gave him great pleasure to mispronounce his name, though Molly did look at him disapprovingly. He felt on the verge of apologizing, but her small snort of laughter made him rethink it.

 

* * *

 

"You're the  _best man_?" she said not being able to help staring at him after the lads had finally been sorted out (hair brushed, suits on), though Tom's face was still not normal, but there was hardly anything they could do about that beyond waiting. The music had started after all - the guests more than relieved, some cheering a bit even from what she could hear. They'd been waiting long enough for the wedding to be had, and thought they were fewer than expected, Molly said they were the only ones that counted, which had surprisingly worked with the teary Polly who was beyond happy to know Tom was alive even if he wasn't rash-free.

 

Sherlock raised a brow, "It's hardly my first time."

 

Molly shook her head with a laugh, "Okay - - go - - he'll need you and the rings."

 

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock looking rather flustered all of a sudden. "But-,"

 

"What?" she said looking up at him confused, and that's when he leaned down, face hesitant - pausing - catching her eye - and she leaned upward to meet his soft supple lips. His hands sliding around her waist were most welcome, nor did she complain when he tugged her a bit closer, his tall frame pushed up against hers - hands sliding slowly from the small of her back to her bottom, cupping her arse through the fabric of her dress - - then the church music brutally stopped. Sherlock drew back, his mouth pink from her lipstick - "Umm - - go - go!" she said blinking herself back, hurriedly licking at her lips.

 

Sherlock gave her a onceover clearly stating ' _this wasn't over'_  while wiping at his mouth with his thumb, and then he strode out, the music starting once more.

 

Molly let out a breath,  _oh, thank god,_ she thought rather giddy before she finally followed the rest of the bridesmaids out, pleased to know there'd be no more dead bodies for what she had in mind later.


	14. Quattordici

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me just like 3 years to complete. 
> 
> Forgive me.

The church was eerily quiet; the priest cleared his throat - others held their breath and you could actually hear the flick of some wedding guest’s wrists as they fanned themselves through the blistering heat.

 

Her pink dress was clinging to her skin, probably see-through at this point, and she felt like disappearing through the floor. She’d like the ability to do that, as everyone in the church was staring at her.

 

Or so she felt, instantly regretting that she’d said yes to be an impromptu-bridesmaid. Holly was avoiding eye-contact with her, her hand half-covering her mouth, as if wanting to laugh.

 

Sherlock proceeded to lean down to her ear, “Should we leave?” he whispered, though his whisper felt very loud considering the gravity of the situation.  

 

She pursed her lips awkwardly. Her bouquet was still in her hands, but he wasn’t wrong to answer the question. Eyes were on her as a fact and it wasn’t just something she’d imagined. While she was trying her best to look anywhere else - even the priest was looking at her a bit cross attempting a second throat clearing, then again, she’d “borrowed” his car.

 

 _This_ was technically not her fault, and technically the wedding was still going on. Despite nothing currently happening. Nobody had left yet, but all of them, guests, family, friends – they were all holding their breath. They had good reason to, and she had good reason to want to shield her face with the flowers in her hands.

 

At first, everyone had laughed at what had seemed to be a joke.

 

The groom had already been late after all, it seemed like the right atmosphere to crack one, but the _way_ Tom had proceeded to apologize right after it, clarified that it wasn’t a joke on his part.

 

He’d actually gone and done it.

 

It was the business of the name…

 

It was like she’d said – Polly and Molly were _very_ similar.

 

And anyone with half-a-brain would have thought he was making a reference to _Friends_. Maybe it was something Polly and he enjoyed watching together, an inside-joke of some kind, and as the wedding party had laughed as well, it didn’t seem far off (some of them even saying _Friends_ under their breath, nodding their heads in acknowledgement for having “gotten that reference”.

 

But then Tom had apologized, laying it on thick with saying he’d mixed up Polly’s name with hers, as he’d practised a lot on his vows with her when they were engaged (clearly in front of a mirror to try to work on his nerves on the prospect, which was a detail that didn’t help, especially when he added the fact that he hadn’t really practised for his new fiancé). Polly had turned on her then, and it wasn’t the sort of cross stare either, it was the “oh my god, is he this thick?”

 

They were still hanging on the thread of this very moment, none of the groomsmen knew how to proceed, some of them making faces during Tom’s speech, unable to really stop him from making a fool of himself.

Besides the bridesmaids, all of them, horrified for Polly.

 

The fact that Sherlock wanted to _exit_ the exact moment didn’t feel off or at all wrong, but she felt if she moved, everyone else would.

 

“…We’ll wait,” she said in a low voice to Sherlock who raised a brow in return. Holly who was besides her letting out a snort, quickly clearing her throat right after. The bride-to-be glanced at her sister who shrugged in return, all of them unsure of what to do, as was normal. Molly was just glad Tom wasn’t _talking_ anymore, his speech having waned off when he knew he’d made a mess of it.

 

Time seemed to speed up, however, the second Tom got one of the bridesmaid’s flowers sharply thrown on his head.

 

He cried out, clutching his forehead.

 

Polly took one look at his pained face, picked up her skirts - and ran for the exit. Her face flushed and her eyes teary, several of the guests stood up from their seats, the volume as if turned on again, people talking, shouting – some laughing.

 

The bridesmaids trotted after Polly, a few seconds later, some of them exclaiming her name, and others taking to throw a scathing look at Molly, as if she’d forced Tom to say her name instead of Polly’s when accepting the vows.

 

She hung back, jerking her head at Tom who stood dumbfounded by the aisle – the priest snapping his bible shut with a sigh. Tom ran after Polly, his own best men carrying after him, while Sherlock _his best man_ , stood behind, hands clutched behind his back, as he furrowed his brows at the scene. He looked oddly amused.

 

Holly gave her a look, before walking slowly after the proceedings probably on-going on the outside of the church.

 

She knew she could probably do something, but she was done.

 

She had done enough.

 

People were walking back outside, some of them clearly keen on feeling the hint of a breeze on their faces. She longed for it herself, shoulders slumping slightly at the heat, as she felt Sherlock take hold of her one free hand. Her hand tingled, and she hoped it would continue to do every time he did so. “I won’t be making a speech then,” he said to which she laughed.

Molly was bemused to see Greg walk towards them, while other people were heading for the exit, the detective inspector sifting through the crowd. He stopped by the pair of them, glancing briefly at their interlocked hands, but thankfully not making a shrewd observation.

 

“So, I suppose the wedding’s off then?” he said, picking at his ear awkwardly, half of a grin on his way.

 

“Yeah,” she said. She wasn’t happy that it _was_ , neither for Tom or Polly, though she supposed they had rushed it a bit. And so, had she and Tom when she’d accepted his impromptu proposal years back.

 

She garnered from some of the expressions she was getting from people she knew who were giving her an awkward wave of their hand – her Facebook inbox would be littered with either sympathy or abuse. But she didn’t have it in her to care, as she’d tried her best to have the wedding pull through. She did have a nagging voice in the back of her head that she did care in the end, and that she could have avoided all by ticking of ‘not attending’. Then again, she looked down at her and Sherlock’s hand.

He gave her a look at that, his eyes twinkling slightly, “What?” he said.

 

“It isn’t my fault, is it?” she said making a face.

 

“You’ve solved a murder case - helped her sister - got the sisters on friendly terms again and even got the groom in time for the wedding. So _no_ ,” said Sherlock with a sigh. “I think this might just be meat-dagger…”

 

She really couldn’t bother to correct him.

 

“Well, he did drink too much last night, and nerves, which are normal. It’s a wedding. I almost fainted during my own,” Greg added.

 

Sherlock resisted commenting on that, probably helped that she gave him a look first, his mouth poised and ready to say something that would probably have Greg gritting his teeth.

 

“Right,” she said, however, not feeling very cheered when she saw an elderly lady who she could only gather was Polly’s grandmother looking very cross, cursing under her breath. “Ugh.”

 

“I thought he was taking the piss, to be honest,” said Greg trying to be helpful.

 

Molly snorted, shaking her head, as she relieved the moment in her head once more. “Not your fault that he’s watched too much Friends,” said Sherlock, giving her hand a squeeze.

 

She smiled at that, struck by the fact that Sherlock did actually pay attention when she binge-watched that show (frequently). Honestly, sometimes she was convinced he’d used her flat as a bolt hole just to have the chance to watch the telly.  

 

“Well – what now?” said Greg, hands in his pockets, eyeing the now empty church.

 

The priest was already gone as well.

 

She half-expected to see someone sweeping the floors by the way the church had managed to empty out so quickly.  

 

“Home and country,” said Sherlock with raised brows to Greg who looked at the pair of them rather put out. “For you Greg.” His expression changed entirely by the use of his proper name.

 

The detective inspector grinned in return at being called the right name, “Don’t make the name-thing a recurring thing, it might get to my head… I suppose you’ll both-,”

 

“Stay-,” Sherlock replied before she had a chance to say anything.

 

She smiled at that, her insides feeling all of a sudden lighter, yet nervous. It had all started out in desperation, from her part that was, her tirelessly trying to _get_ over the man standing beside her. The same man who had been trying to woo her, terribly, albeit, but nonetheless in his own very strange way. He looked handsome there he stood, somehow _cool_ in the heat, like he could withstand any temperature, though the thread count of his suit was probably something impeccably posh and light. Or he was just magic, she supposed, almost giggling to herself.

 

His face was so sincere, so earnest, so open, it made her heart ache to look at him. There would be no problems from now on, well, no problems they wouldn’t be able to overcome, whether silly or serious.

 

She gathered her wits about her, trying her best to look at something else, giving Greg a half-hearted goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

She looked lovely there she stood, still clutching those flowers in her hands, which looked like they were drooping. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy pink from the heat. Somehow, she seemed to have gone into her own internal _mind palace_ , hardly paying mind as she stared upwards at the ceiling, not even giving Greg much regard as he walked off to give them a moment. Clearly, she was admiring the painting on the ceiling, with all its textures and _holy figures_ , her lips slightly parted.

He avoided saying something all-together-stupid, allowing himself to admire her in silence – the pair of them alone for once. They’d barely had any time to themselves, and if they did, they always wound up somehow occupied by some thing or the other. Her dress clung to her skin, beads of perspiration slipping down her chest, by the revealing low cut at the front. It was a lovely dress, he mused. None of the frills and mess of the wedding dress, yet effortlessly her, with practical pockets, he couldn’t help but notice.

 

“What?” she said clearly catching his gaze, and his eyes flickered upwards to her face.

 

He didn’t reply, he didn’t know what to say, he felt he would ruin the moment, whatever moment they seemed to be lost in. He knew they had seemingly all the time in the world, but, he was scared. Terrified that if he took one false step, she’d go, leave, and he’d be standing there alone.

 

“What are you thinking?” he finally managed to say, his throat somehow dry.

 

She smiled sweetly, her brown eyes shining, “We’re alone.”

 

“Oh – I hadn’t noticed,” he joked, relieved to hear her laugh.

 

She stepped closer, leaning on her tip toes as she gave him a soft kiss on the lips, causing him to close his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

 

Throwing her arms around him, she held him close, and he returned the favour, his hands on the small of her back. Once more he felt her soft lips, and he kissed her in return, first softly, then fiercely, even if he wanted the moment to last.

 

“Hi-,” said a voice, and they turned in surprise to see Tom and Polly, the pair of them walking towards them in a slow pace. Both of them holding hands, which he could see Molly seemed relieved at. So was he, to his own surprise.

 

“Sorry about that-,” said Tom chuckling.

 

Polly gave the man a look, which Sherlock recognized.

 

“- But enough about that, umm-,”

 

And that’s when the priest strode in, holding a book in his hands, which caused Sherlock to raise his brows in surprise.

 

Molly lifted her flowers in recognition, eyeing the pair of them. “We want you to stay,” said Polly stopping Tom from babbling on, with a genuine smile on her face.

 

The pair didn’t move any further, standing in front of them, while the priest however, stood by the pew.

 

“The both of you,” Tom finished.

 

Sherlock blinked furiously, clutching Molly’s hand once more, firmer than intended.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

“… We’re not getting married,” said Polly letting out a breath, still looking somehow happy. “Not yet, at least.”

 

“But-,” Molly started confused turning around to look at the priest who had his book open in his hands.

 

“We thought – maybe -,” continued Polly.

 

She turned to look at Sherlock, and he looked perplexed, but there was something in his eyes, nervousness and... hope.  

 

“Us?” she started, “But we’ve not – we’ve – I-,” she really didn’t know where to go with that sentence whatsoever.

 

They wanted _them_ to marry? Them?

 

“Yeah - but you’ve been in love for years, and have known each other for more than them,” said Tom. “…There’s a reason we never got married, besides other things obviously, but it was never about us… It was always about the two of you.”

 

“Well-,” she looked down at the floor, not managing to go on, and soon she looked up to see Sherlock meeting her gaze full-on.   

 

His smile wasn’t something she could ever manage to describe, too bright, too gleaming for words ever being able to.

 

 

* * *

 

John had his daughter perched on his shoulder, while he managed to balance his camera phone on his other shoulder. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock in _weeks_ , which wasn’t unusual, but he wanted to see if everything was alright. The fact that Molly hadn’t returned as well did bode well, or so he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. Finally, after several attempts Sherlock answered – “What?” he bit out.

 

“Well, hello to you too-,”

 

“I’ve really no time-,”

 

He could hear giggling in the background, besides the sound of a _slap._ John didn’t want to ask what was being slapped, or where, or who – his imagination was enough. “So, everything worked out then?” he said quickly, knowing he’d be hung up on any moment.

 

“Yes, of course. We’re on our sex holiday as we speak.”

 

He sighed, “Okay, then, umm, I’ll call you another time.”

 

“Do,” said Sherlock in return, promptly hanging up.

 

Mary came into the room, relieving him of Rosie.

 

“Was that Sherlock?” she asked, bouncing their baby on her chest.

 

“Yeah, umm, I think he’s alright. I think I heard Molly in the background.”

 

“Oh good,” she said with wide-eyes, clearly relieved.

 

“He said they were on their _sex-holiday_ ,” said John with a laugh.

 

Mary stared at him, then, looking thoughtful.

 

“What?”

 

“Didn’t he call our honeymoon a ‘sex holiday?”

 

John blinked.

 

 

THE END.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
